


that's not the beginning of the end, that's the return to yourself

by apple_solutely



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Dazed and Confused, Karaoke, Last day of school, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, Lot's of pop culture references too, Lot's of song references, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Moon watching, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Senior Year of High School, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Stan is the superior loser and I am correct, The Losers Club Love Each Other (IT), They're just vibing!, This is basically useless, maggie and went are cool parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_solutely/pseuds/apple_solutely
Summary: The date is May 25th, 1994 and the Losers spend their last day of senior year together.[Or the Dazed and Confused au no one asked for]
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Maggie Tozier/Wentworth Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31





	that's not the beginning of the end, that's the return to yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Gosh, I don't know where to even start!  
> I've been writing this for a little over a month while the idea has been nagging the back of my brain for way longer. I never felt ready because it's super long and I am terrible at writing angst.  
> Except inspiration struck and now here we are!  
> Twitter and my friends (online and in real life) know how much of an emotional mess I was while writing. I'm not exactly sure why. But it might have been because I looked up songs released in 1994 and it unlocked so many dear memories of my dad playing these songs on long road-trips when we were young. Enigma was the biggest emotional impact because I'm a cancer and I'm sentimental as hell. Especially the song Return to Innocence which, honest to god, brought me to tears and I had it on repeat for days. It inspired the title of this fic and inspired the vibe or theme I was aiming for.  
> Part of the reason why I was an emotional mess was also because I miss my senior year of high school, especially since I graduated a few years back. It was the best and I enjoyed it the most because of my friends who always encouraged me to step outside my limits. It wouldn't have been the same without them telling me to do fun things like dance at events because guess what? I don't dance, I'm shy.  
> I think this is why I'm a lot like Eddie in some ways. Which also explains why I put in a lot of my own personal emotions and fears from that particular time in my life.  
> Anyway, I'm rambling but I felt the need to get that out.
> 
> So, like what they say about the movie, this fic is basically useless and it might be terrible. If so, I apologize :)
> 
> Eddie is nineteen and Stan is the youngest, seventeen. Patty has a brief cameo and she's fifteen but stanpat is not a part of this fic. There's only one small interaction. So please don't be weird about it as that was not my own intention either. 
> 
> The characterization for Maggie and Went are inspired by Millennialpink22's fic [A Mother Always Knows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22240303/chapters/53104375) so go check that out as well because she's my crab and I love her for bearing with my clingy ass
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy <3

The contents of Eddie’s fanny pack 

-One black pen in the front pocket

-One blue pen in the front pocket

-bobby pins in the front pocket

-A tiny container of Vaseline

-A small packet of tissues

-A tube of sunscreen

-Band-aids

-A minuscule bottle of bug spray

-A packet of skittles

-Hand sanitizer

-Allergy cream

-Wallet

Wallet.

He pauses, rubbing a thumb over the leather texture of it. There’s space inside but the back-end of his brain argues otherwise. Crisp, crumpled dollar bills are stuffed amidst loose pennies. A labored exhale as he stores his wallet in the right back pocket of his shorts, patting it once. He never puts anything on the left.

Outside, he hears the gravel rumble, ears attuned to the specific screech of the old car tires grinding to a halt. Rough rubber creating friction on tarmac. A twitch of a smile quivers up Eddie’s face, fingers shaking from the bursting emotions bubbling up his esophagus. The streets are much too quiet but the chatter of the Losers bickering in Mike’s worn-out truck creates enough commotion to rival a football stadium filled to the brim with loyal fans.

Eddie doesn’t spare a second. He’s out the front door, chains unlocking before he can take his next shallow breath. Every step away unties him from the heavyweight of a structure he doesn’t quite correlate as home.

Mike isn’t in the driver’s seat this time. Instead, he’s lounging in the passenger side, smiling gently in a manner so relaxed and reassuring, Eddie finds his shoulders loosening upon first glance. Bill is in the front, Stan in the middle because there’s just no way he’d ever dare sit with Beverly, Ben, Eddie, and Richie in the cargo bed, unrestrained. He experiences enough headaches already _without_ the help of Eddie and Richie’s habit of arguing about a range of topics as simple as the weather to complex ones about the Anunnaki being a race of blood-drinking, shape-shifting alien reptiles.

Usually, Mike wiggles in with his own perceptions on this debate. Usually, he _also_ ends up silencing them both with his extensive knowledge about shape-shifting aliens.

He promises not to blush at the mere manner of Richie hanging out of the side, hair frazzled from the wind, glasses askew on the bridge of his freckled nose, and sending him a sloppy smile. A little daring, a little like he’s in love.

Eddie’s lungs constrict, a stumble in his next step. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’s already broken one of his own rules regarding _not_ to think about _that._

At least he made it five seconds this time.

When he’s at the foot of the truck, Richie stretches out his octopus arms to help. It takes one right foot on top of the tire, a grunt, and sweaty palms glued together for Eddie to climb up and into the cargo bed, unsteady.

They’re still holding hands.

A blush tinges across Richie’s cheeks, eyes rooted to where they’re linked and in a beat, flicks upwards to meet his eyes, lips tainted pink. Eddie releases the slightest bit of pressure. Unsure. A test. But Richie flexes out his fingers, letting go. 

Eddie’s skin buzzes with a powerful longing.

“So, what’s the four-one-one, Dr. K?” Beverly calls out, head in Ben’s lap, feet dangling out the edge and short hair coating her bare legs, golden under the morning sun.

It’s moderately cold as it always is this early but Eddie’s not taking his chances either and has worn his lightest clothes. The rest follow the same line of thought, cotton, and linen a popular choice in clothing fabrics. In addition, Richie’s wearing an army green bomber jacket which Eddie can predict will be engulfing Beverly’s shoulder by the end of the night.

_What’s the four-one-one?_

Every few seconds, Bill darts his eyes away from the road to capture the low sound of Mike humming under his breath as if it’s something to not only be heard but see as well, fingers drumming on the exterior flesh of the car, windows rolled down, tapping to the beat of the song on the radio. Stan turns the knob with a ratty click _. "_ Loser" by Beck—a favorite amongst them and a song they don’t play unless it’s maxed volume.

He extends his legs out to match with Richie who knocks his foot into his, resetting a familiar charge between them Eddie desperately needed right at this very moment. He hasn’t said a word. He gets like that sometimes. Tongue-tied once Eddie shows up. Eddie doesn’t quite know what to think of it.

Through the glass partition between, Stan bobs his head, curls springing to life. He starts singing along, throat raspy, and enticing enough as it is, Eddie immediately wants to join in. Stan sings from the soul, bowing into himself, head tilted up with a ferocity of passion they rarely get to see _._

_I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me?_

Bill nearly swerves off the road. A breathless wonder of laughter escapes past Richie’s lips, meeting Beverly’s widened grin, at the very seams of falling apart. Ben chuckles, leaning his weight backward to rest on the frame. His cheeks are puffy red.

“You’re a wild card,” Richie smirks crookedly at Stan who merely sticks his tongue out briefly in a childish manner of which only Richie could reduce him to.

It’s the last day of senior year. His closest friends are within reach. Beverly can stain his cheek with magenta lipstick, Mike could swing an arm around his shoulder, Ben can give him the best hug, Stan could simply reach over and rub away the dirt that somehow finds its way onto his face, Bill could pat his shoulder in that stupidly wise way of his.

And Richie…

It’s the last day of senior year and there’s an ache of loss and fear just under the loud thrum of adrenaline and happiness which engulfs any negative emotion. Eddie plans on making today count. He’s going to have fun. He’s going to let loose and he’s going to allow every emotion to consume him entirely because he’s quite afraid of bursting otherwise.

Because today, Eddie Kaspbrak is going to tell Richie Tozier he loves him back.

***

The school bell rings and prompts a genuinely concerning stampede in their claustrophobic hallways, the urgency not valued by the seniors who are slowly crawling back into class. Somewhat, the coast is clear enough, leaving the Losers alone out in the hall. Beverly and Richie are glued at each other’s sides, arms wrapped around waists, Ben’s and Bev’s other hand swinging between.

Maggie’s tomcats—Richie and Beverly—the regular John and Joan Cusack.

Eddie remembers a time of jealousy he mutually shared with Ben for their close bond over the years. Her, Richie and Stan were never apart but it must have been at the age of fourteen when Eddie first happened to analyze their friendship closely. Richie and Beverly always had something different of which Eddie couldn’t comprehend entirely without a bit of resentment. It’s taken a while to grow out of it but Eddie knows it was when he found out who Richie was truly in love with that completely spiraled it all out of control. It’s difficult to tell sometimes. But Richie isn’t good at hiding secrets from Eddie in particular.

It had been a sleepover just between them—after a disruptive argument between him and Sonia went in further places he hadn’t got the patience for. Late as it was, Eddie couldn’t stand being in her presence any longer and knocked incessantly on the Tozier household door, welcomed with open arms and a trademark cup of hot cocoa, marshmallows dipped inside. It had not been the cocoa nor the warm embrace from Maggie which allowed him to grasp the single thread of sanity—like strings at the end of frayed jeans. It had been Richie. Lying right next to him, crowding and covering the entire bed—and yet...Eddie felt at peace. He’d relaxed and felt his limbs sing, exhausted but veins pumping with adrenaline, much too wired to truly fall asleep.

It didn’t seem like anything at first. Just mumbled words from Richie’s mouth and Eddie thought: he really never shuts up, not even when he’s asleep.

Richie wasn’t asleep, though, and his shuddery confession snapped Eddie from within. He had felt the ghost of his arm crack from the time Henry broke it. Pain. But Richie’s silent, scared, and broken “I’m in love with you,” brought pain, yes, but pain in a way he didn’t correlate with in comparison to observing Sonia’s heartbreak over the years. 

And the way Richie confessed, caressed this beast inside him as if his words were gentle enough to tame. Richie had been afraid but the exhale of the sentence itself proved it alleviated the stress he had most likely been carrying around. Richie said it like he needed to so that he could move on.

Perhaps it’s taken Eddie far too long to realize he doesn’t want him to. And it certainly didn’t take a genius to figure out the fact that Eddie wasn’t ever meant to hear those words, especially since Richie went on as usual, mindless faith in thinking Eddie had been asleep.

It makes him want to take Richie by the shoulders and shake some sense into him—to ask why he’s so afraid of his best friend. He wants to tell him, ‘I hear you. I see you. I love you’—you fucking jackass who completely turned my world upside down with five just words.

Now, if only his mouth would work. If only he could stand in front of Richie and not stare at him with cold sweat, the fear raw enough for Eddie to understand Richie’s own frustrations.

Typical. Fighting a killer clown, turns out, is a walk in the park compared to confessing—out loud—Richie Tozier might actually be the only person who could handle him. 

Eddie places his hands to his burning cheeks, feigning as if he’s only resting his head in his palms. The clock ticks slowly inside the classroom. 12:34. Satisfaction is exactly like the ticking of a clock, the anal-retentive segment of his brain finding pleasure. _1,2,3,4_. Two hours and a half until they’ll be free forever.

He catches movement from under the table. His and Richie’s legs are the only jittery ones, frantic like a shaking coffee machine, and it causes their seats to create the tiniest squeaky noises he had previously ignored. An instinctive smile comes up his face upon watching Richie scribble sentences on the flesh of his inner wrist—comedy punch lines because he’s got a curled grin hidden under what it seems are his attempts to reel it in for his own sake. Not dissimilar to Eddie’s own private attitude when it comes to creativity, Richie, too, is rather insecure until he’s entirely content with his ideas.

With one foot propped on the seat, Bill sketches on a notepad he carries around, using his lap as a table. He’s chewing on his lower lip, deeply concentrated just as the rest are too in their own worlds. Eddie appreciates the two extremes the Losers attain. Quiet or loud. He likes that they can sit in silence and not talk bullshit.

Eddie zips open his fanny pack to retrieve his packet of skittles, the sound of crinkling maximized in pin-drop silence. Every pair of eyes land on him within a millisecond and Eddie pauses, fingers prosed to tear it open.

“Jesus, it’s like you all haven’t had breakfast.”

Richie parts open his mouth but Eddie holds up a finger, “Don’t you dare lie to me, Tozier. Maggie would never let you leave home without a proper meal.” When he starts again, Eddie continues, “And I saw you practically inhale that muffin at lunch. It was gross.” He adds, disapproved from the sheer memory of it.

Mike hums from his corner, all slumped forward on the desk, “Hmm, yeah. It _was_ a little bit gross.”

Several other agreeable grunts circle around the room, even from their other classmates.

Richie flails out his hands, a healthy pout playing on his lips, “What,” he scoffs, “is it Trash the Trashmouth day and no one told me?”

“It’s always Trash the Trashmouth day.” Beverly flicks his forehead but immediately smacks a kiss to that same area later. She is incapable of afflicting pain.

“So I eat like a pig. Old news.” Richie winks at the group and Eddie rolls his eyes but jerks skittles out into his left palm.

He separates the browns from the group carefully and transports them into Richie’s grubby hand.

“Aww, why can’t you be fun and feed me instead?” His eyes are wide behind his stupid glasses, attempting what Richie calls his ‘Ed-eyes’.

Eddie hands Stan the blue ones, his answer whip-lashed from his tongue, “Eat. My. Shorts.”

“Is that an offer?”

Eddie throws a skittle at his cackling form and even Ben snickers to which Eddie whips his head at. This silences him immediately, a thin press of his mouth together. The rest share amused expressions with each other while Richie remains oblivious, popping skittles in his mouth.

He absolutely hates his friends. _Hates them_. Eddie hooks a finger under his collar, feeling hot.

Just for the sake of changing the subject and expelling the weird tension, Eddie leans back into his seat, “Why did we even come to school today?” A stirring of frustration makes itself known, “Even the teachers knew better and stayed home.”

Bill raises an eyebrow and lowers his foot, concerned, “Eddie, are you a-alright? Let me check your temperature.”

“Ha!” Richie exclaims, mouth stained. At a sight more disgusting than the inside of Pennywise’s mouth, Eddie grimaces. 

He still wants to kiss Richie, though.

“Asshole.” He mutters under his breath. Bill grins and reaches over to muss Eddie’s hair, earning him an annoyed huff disguising the small bubble of affection.

“Hey, Trashmouth!” Harvey, a fellow senior, calls out, strolling into the classroom. His baggy jeans ride low, tied together by a jacket around his waist.

“That’s my name! Don’t wear it out!” He replies easily, shifting sideways, arm propped on the back-rest and leg wedged under his bum.

Eddie sits up, noting the exchange with hawk-like perception. He’s never liked Harvey, you see.

Harvey chuckles because he’s cool and popular and isn’t at all like Eddie who would yell at Richie with tinged ears and just make an entire spectacle of himself. Stan meets his eyes, pencil stilled in his hand.

“You coming to Slater’s party tonight?” Harvey asks, resting his body on the edge of the table.

Richie shrugs as if he’s a gangster in a mob movie and Eddie wants to pounce across the table to strangle him—

“I mean, I would rather be bangin’ your mom but gotta play hard to get sometimes too, right?”

And turns to give Eddie a raunchy wink, white teeth flashing in front of his eyes and—

Eddie forgets to breathe. He actually forgets how to breathe—holy shit. Where was his inhaler? Where the _fuck_ was his goddamn inhaler?

Stop—

—He can’t find it because he didn’t fucking bring it. Okay. It’s okay. Play it cool. Chill out, Eddie. You’re cool. You’re calm. You threw your inhaler out when you were thirteen and never had to use one again, remember? _Remember?_

“...Oh, no, man that sucks!” Richie continues because he is a dumbfuck idiot.

“Yeah, Slater got busted by his parents so we’re all going out to the quarry later.”

Eddie’s chest caves and Richie’s smile deters just the same as the rest of the Losers. The quarry had been their solace until a bunch of seniors found their spot two years back. It’s now been converted to a major hub for parties, stereos and hidden kegs stashed behind trees, the ground being a dump because no one bothered to clean up after either. The Losers swung by sometimes to clean under Eddie’s insistence but they didn’t need much convincing in the first place due to the sentimental value the quarry holds. Or maybe it’s basic human compassion. But Eddie doesn’t know what he’s expecting from the same people who turned a blind eye to the evil rotting in Derry’s sewers.

“Eddie, you want to come fill your water bottle with me?” Stan asks and Eddie understands the subtext right away. He nods, clutching the cool stainless steel circumference of his bottle, and falls into step beside Stan.

Richie’s eyes track Eddie’s back—and he can feel him but he ignores it instead of acknowledging the weight. Eddie’s allowed to be a little petty if he wants to, even though it’s not Richie’s fault...He may be valedictorian but he’s a dumbass when it comes to interpersonal relationships and emotional intelligence.

Stan is Eddie’s mediator—a mix between a Yoda and an old man because he’s always been wiser than what the childish features of his soft, round face and gentle eyes portray. They walk in silence, stopping at their destination at the end of the hallway. Eddie leans against the locker, fingers tracing a path at the metal while Stan flicks the tap of the dispenser. The calming trickle of water should be relaxing but it’s the easy manner of Stan’s poised movements, of how he unscrews and screws the top of their bottles that fascinates Eddie always. Stan could make the most boring task seem soothing and fun as if he were entertaining in front of an audience on tv.

“Sentimental?” Stan questions in that knowing manner of his Eddie sometimes finds irritating according to strenuous circumstances.

“Used to be my locker in sophomore year...wonder if it’s still got gum stuck on the back.”

This earns him a low snort as Stan hands him his water bottle. “I remember that. I also remember warning you and Richie from getting too excited about trying out science experiments you find written in a book from the Derry library.”

“Hey, easy,” Eddie replies, “we did learn a lot about It because of the Derry library.”

“Case in point.”

He purses his lips, about to swerve the conversation, “Fine.” And then exhales out in a single breath, “I had a dream about Richie last night.”

Stan cocks an eyebrow, eyes widened just a smidge, breath shortening in wonder, “Shit.” He sputters out a laugh.

“Oh, fuck off, it wasn’t like that!” Eddie smacks his shoulder. Stan still carries on laughing. “Stan! Come on! You’re supposed to help me!” He may just be one moment away from stomping his foot to the ground like a toddler.

He wipes away the wetness collecting in the corner of his eyes, “Sorry, sorry.”

“It really wasn’t like that. I’m not—” Eddie starts, swallowing thickly to recover any degree of dignity, “I’m not a horndog—and even if I did, it’s not like I’d tell you either!”

“Oh, I beg you to never. _Please_.” Stan nudges him with his elbow, “what was your super virginally clean dream about?”

Eddie sighs but decides to let it be, “I can’t say.”

“ _Eddie_.” Stan’s exasperation is evidently crystal clear.

He squirms with a tug at his pointer finger, flutters in his stomach, “It’s embarrassing.”

“Then why bother dangling the meat?” He continues on in that same weariness

“Stan, you’re vegan.” 

Stan levels a certain glance towards him that could chill Antarctica, “I frankly _do not_ care at all if you tell me or not. You know that, right?” He reasons for something Eddie does, in fact, already know. It’s why he entrusts Stan with this information in the first place. He’s excellent at secret-keeping for one and incredibly observant while he behaves as if any sort of drama is beneath him.

Maturity was never one of Eddie’s strong suits, and he looks up to all the Losers for qualities he lacks—especially Bill but he’s come to grow out of his hero-worship and has instead, turned towards Stan in the recent years. Still, it’s not necessarily more or less than how he treats the rest...it’s only that each bond is unique and incomparable. But perhaps he does tend to put Richie highest up on the pedestal for reasons that still baffle him, even though his affections for Richie have remained stark-different for as long as he could remember.

Fumbling with the front zipper of his fanny pack, Eddie mumbles his words, “We were...talking—in my dream.” Pleased, Stan nods and they proceed on their walk back to class, “I made him laugh, and his left-eye crinkled in that cute way of his...” Stan smiles to himself as if indulging in a private joke, “...We were happy. Like really happy and I was about to kiss him but then—” Eddie rubs his forehead, flustered.

Gently, and without judgment, “And then?”

Eddie finds his eyes and pauses with trembling lips, “His face. Turned. Into the. Leper’s face.”

A brief flicker of Stan’s smile hooks up from the corner but it’s gone in a flash because he’s a robot who can easily mask his entire expression. Stan rubs his mouth, a look of wonder as he places his other hand on his waist, and Eddie can’t tell if he’s about to break or not. He’s reduced him to a state of utter speechlessness of which has never occurred before—and he’s known Stan since they were seven years old.

Eddie believes he won’t receive a response any time soon but that is, until, Stan exhales deeply, pure wisdom in every pore of his form as he lands a heavy palm on Eddie’s shoulder, sincere and sorrowful:

“I’m so sorry.”

Stan absolutely loses it.

He holds a breath and thinks of smashing his head into a locker.

_Right_. So much for that.

***

“ALRIGHT YOU LITTLE FRESHMEN BITCHES!” Propped hands on their waists, Darla and Greta command said freshmen girls who are all gathered in the parking lot like soldiers on base for the first time. Fresh meat was more like it—with the way those girls were treated in a degraded fashion. Greta and Darla were unconditionally ruthless; the typecast of a cliché female villain merged into one.

“AIR RAID!” Greta yells into a speaker, their order followed through from fear and helplessness rather than free will. All girls drop to the rough gravel, flat on their chests.

Eddie winces. It did not look painless at all.

Similar to the other seniors, the Losers were too in the parking lot, watching the same shitshow that occurred every year; a ‘welcoming gift’ of pure torture delivered by graduating students had turned into an annual event. Some towns fussed over prom, homecoming, or football. But Derry? It wouldn’t be a party without a little sprinkle of hatred and negativity.

“I can’t look away.” Ben depresses, “Why can’t I look away?”

The sun beats down as they lounge in the back of Mike’s truck, watching Greta and Darla dump flour and eggs and all sorts of food items on the poor girls. Sweat clings at Eddie’s neck, yet it’s disgust at Greta and Darla’s treatment which has him a bit green.

Beverly shakes her head, pushing up her sunglasses to the top, amidst red curls, “It’s truly fascinating how the entire school and this town allows this. No parents seem to mind. They have permission to use the parking lot. It’s _bullshit_.” She lists off on her fingers in a tone Eddie has heard frequently.

Greta and Darla may be keen and tenacious but they were no match for Beverly Marsh once she’s passionate—and particularly in matters concerning this one. Ben immediately consoles her by rubbing her back. Two swipes, up and down. However small the action is, Beverly appreciates it nonetheless, biting her lower lip, mind miles away.

The boys had it easy on their initiation day. The seniors had been somewhat compassionate compared to previous ones who had chased freshmen with baseball bats and pocket knives to frighten them. They’d heard horror stories over the years, such as the one about a freshman who had pissed his pants during his initiation and was known as piss-ant for the rest of his high school career. Eddie shudders to think of it. They were no strangers to bullies and the action of harassment they could thank Henry Bowers for, who is now securely locked behind bars, rotting as he deserves. However, bullies were a terror they hadn’t been able to shake off just yet. Some students were nasty but he was glad it never got as bad as it did with Bowers. Except, Eddie does believe they walked out of the Neibolt braver and stronger so their mundane fears strip away into a meaningless afterthought. Bullying was hardly a blip in the system.

Beverly hadn’t been as lucky. 

Her initiation went as terrible as it does for these freshmen at this very moment. She’d called the Losers to the Quarry, voice devoid of emotion, and had found her painted head to toe in ketchup. Beverly hadn’t stopped shaking the entire time they helped her clean off in the water, unable to speak a word—angry at herself for giving in to a fear she shouldn’t be harboring anymore. Eddie knows first-hand it isn’t as easy. The contents of last night’s dream prove it so.

“Neo-McCarthyism is what it is.” Mike offers and usually, Eddie has no clue what he goes on about, but this term, he is well-acquainted with because of a certain bug-eyed boy.

Typically so, Richie, who’s spread out, propped up on his elbows, long legs stretched ahead, swivels his head back at Eddie with a trademark smirk.

“Here we go.” Stan bemoans dryly.

“Don’t worry, Stan.” Haughtily, Eddie keeps his head up, not facing Richie, “I am not falling for his tricks.”

“Oooh, that makes me sound like a venus fly-trap or some cool shit.” He waggles his eyebrows, the use of that certain plant not unnoticed by Eddie who had listened to Richie joke about the pronunciation of 'venus' and 'penis' because, in actuality, Richie hasn’t aged past the age of thirteen. Eddie can scientifically prove it if he could just get him on a surgical table.

“Ooh! Ooh!” Richie perks up, capturing all of Eddie’s attention due to his hyperactive energy, “Or like a maiden. You’re _wooed_ by my feminine _wiles_.” He emphasizes prettily, head in his palms, accentuating his cheekbones while their friends only feed his ego through laughter.

Bill smacks the back of his hand at Richie’s arm, “You’re terrible.”

_Traitor_.

Meanwhile, Eddie maintains his disinterest despite the extremely opposite emotion threatening to spill out from within, “That doesn’t even fucking make sense! Why would I—? Feminine wiles, honestly!” He throws his arms in the air, giving up.

An all-too smug look, “Rendered you speechless, babe. Cute.”

“Shut the fuck up.” He stabs a hand at his face, “And not a word about Neo-McCarthyism, Richie. I mean it!”

Richie sits up, readjusting to fold his legs underneath him in mirror position to Eddie’s. “Too late, my friend. You’ve opened a can of worms.”

Eddie’s heart is still firing like a machine gun. He wonders if Richie knows the disturbingly influential effect of his words and actions. 

“Oh, are we g-going to argue about _X-Files_ again? Is that what we’re leading up to? Just asking because they _are_ s _-_ selling popcorn over at the concession s-stand.” Bill, cheeky as ever, teases—but all he receives are groans from the entire group save for Richie whose eager excitement matches Bill’s admiration for theatrics.

“Big Bill! Knew I loved ya for a reason!” He exclaims, throwing himself at him.

Eddie will not get jealous about Richie smacking an obnoxious kiss to Bill’s cheek. He will absolutely not.

He inhales in and blurts out the first argumentative thought that’s fixed at the tip of his tongue, “ _X-Files_ is Neo-McCarthyism at it’s finest and you can simply fuck off, Tozier. End of discussion.”

Richie breaks out in a grin, “You really think it’s that simple?—Dude, you think everything is Neo-McCarthyism! I’m starting to think you need to read up on the definition again.”

“I know plenty, dipshit. I can quote it from Merriam-Webster. Can you?”

“Bullshit. Why the dick would you have that shit memorized?”

“Maybe for this very reason!” He whips back.

Richie laughs freely, face expressive in a way Eddie adores. His affection is transparent as he bobs his head in to whisper a secret, “You’re a fucking of piece of work.”

Except all Eddie hears is, “I fucking love you to death”.

Morbid. And maybe he’s reading too much into it. Eddie’s always suffered from an active imagination.

“Whatever!” Eddie counters, eyebrows dipped down as he says, “Mike’s the one who used the term wrong, anyway.”

“Now, wait a second.” Mike pops his mouth off the straw. He and Bill were sharing a raspberry slushie, lips, and mouth stained red. If he thought Richie and him had it bad, Mike and Bill were just as lost as they were. Even if the chances of them figuring their shit out was higher than the bare minimum Eddie will ever get with Richie.

At least Ben and Beverly made it to the other side. Stan, however, is single but oddly enough, a ladies man who has a love letter falling out of his locker every day—and every day he would merely sigh and stuff the letter at the deep end of his backpack. He’d throw them out as soon as he got home, not wishing to do so at school where the person who wrote them could easily see. 

Stan may seem meticulous and flawless but they’ve all got demons and decay inside—a quality the Losers share of which Eddie is continuously intrigued by. He is bee to pollen when it comes to imperfection. This must be Stan’s secret. He’s the type of boy parents used to admire; a textbook definition of the perfect husband for their daughter. After the scandal of 1989? Not so much. And daughters hardly took their parent’s advice anymore. 

Bill grabs the slushie from Mike who dives in to explain, “This entire town is an example of Neo-McCarthyism if you think about it. Turning their heads away from the wrong, and instead, pointing their fingers and creating false accusations towards the good.”

“Yeah...you might be onto s-something there,” Bill nods along, probably wondering about the treatment of race and sexuality, and religion in a town such as Derry where everyone was collectively stuck in time.

“Jesus.” Richie fake yawns, jaw unhinged for a theatrical impression of a movie monster, “I am, frankly, much too sober for this conversation.” A nervous tinge is tied to his words and Eddie is seconds away from doing something stupid like comfort him.

But he remains quiet, opting to lighten the mood, “Richie. You’ve never been drunk in your life—and before you say a word: it was one beer. One fucking beer.”

Richie smiles that private smile of his and Eddie locks his jaw. “You’re so mean to me.”

“You like it.” His response falls out of his mouth like he’s on a slippery slope. Eddie tenses.

A response is ready despite the flush on his paler cheeks and his ruffled state—but there must be a God up there somewhere for he is miraculously saved by the presence of Jodi, their fellow senior and classmate, who has a hand on a freshman girl’s back, leading her to the Losers.

The freshman is quite youthful, a bit of a spark in her expression, laced in the way she juts her jaw out. Fierce. Yet masked under the impression of daintiness. Her hair is covered in flour, face smudged with some patches of pretzel crumbs, and clothes striped with mustard. Still, Eddie assumes her to be fairly pretty even under all that mess.

“Hey, guys!” Jodi’s beaming, a wide smile is reciprocated for she’s one of the nicer ones. She runs with the bad crowd—Greta and Darla—which explains why she’s roped up in this affair in the first place.

“Hi, Jodi.” Ben replies warmly. Like Ben, Jodi is a proud member of the poetry club. They’ve become good friends over the past year.

“Sorry, supposed to be a bitch right now.” Jodi explains a hand gestured towards the girl, “Stan, meet Patty. Patty, meet Stan, your future fiancé. On your knee.”

“Oh, shit.” Richie cackles, a jab of his elbow at his oldest friend. Even Eddie has to grin, sharing an amused look with Beverly at the sheer demise in Stan’s expression.

Patty gets on one knee and Stan visibly squirms, eyes widened, “Oh, wow, you really don’t have to do th—” 

She follows through, shrugging as Jodi pushes hair away from Patty’s face. She’s confident as she asks, “Will you marry me?”

“Um…” Stan hops off the cargo bed in haste, “Seriously, you can stand up.”

“Boo!—” Richie starts but Eddie punches his bicep with a sharp ‘shut up!’ to which Richie winces at with a low ‘ow!’.

Jodi’s smile is all too mischievous and delightful as Patty is helped up by her. Stan scratches the side of his forehead, “Patty, right?” And offers his hand.

A permanent sketch of amusement dangles over her plump lips. She accepts his hand, shaking it. “Patricia Blum. And you’re Stanley Uris. I was at your Bar Mitzvah.” She explains, a smile never leaving her face.

Stan pauses, hands still clasped. “At my Bar Mitzvah? Where I disgraced the scripture?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The one where I basically told everyone to fuck off?”

“That’s the one!”

If Eddie didn’t know any better, he would say Stan appeared flushed.

“Hm.” Stan grunts and pulls away, looking down strangely at the leftover food that has transferred from Patty’s hand.

She doesn’t seem at all bothered. “It was the highlight of my day.”

“Just your day?” Stan wipes his hand absently while Eddie searches his fanny pack for hand-sanitizer.

Patty tilts her head to the side just a smidge, “Well, we adopted a kitten the day after and that made my month…”

“...I see...” He puzzles over this as Eddie squeezes a few drops of hand sanitizer on his palm. Some bit of life returns to his body for he moves on, “These are my friends, Eddie, Mike, Ben, Beverly, and Bill.”

“Hey!” Richie explodes. “Who am I? The damn butler?”

Stan doesn’t miss a beat, prepared, “You’re a pain in my ass, is what you are.”

“Don’t listen to a word he says! He loves me. We’re brothers.” Richie tells her, and she chuckles in response to his antics.

“We’re not brothers.”

“In my heart we are.” He confides. 

Patty is quick on her toes, nodding grimly, “Can’t deny the heart, now can we?”

Richie beams alongside a squawk of delighted laughter, “I like her. Can we keep her?” He asks no one in particular, googly-eyed. 

“God, you’re so embarrassing,” Eddie mutters under his breath.

“Well!” Jodi takes Patty’s hand, diverting wherever that particular topic was leading them, “This isn’t social hour. Gotta bounce,” She tips a thumb back with an apologizing smile.

“It was nice meeting you!” Richie calls loudly at their retreating backs.

The head-turning scene from _The Exorcist_ was in no comparison next to the manner of how Stan swivels his head towards Richie, a twitch in his eye. He meets everyone’s questioning gazes and quivered lips.

Bill surrenders first, raising both hands in defense. With a charming and handsome smile like Bill’s, it’s easy to find the fight diminish at first glance. “Come on. Let’s ride for a b-bit, yeah?”

“Where to?” Ben asks as they shuffle around to their designated spots, Bill back again in the driver’s seat.

“‘It’s not the journey, it’s the destination.’” Richie quotes wisely, pinching Ben’s cheek, leaving pink skin, “You of all, should know best.”

“Right, so Richie’s house?” Ben dismissed.

“Le casa de Tozier.” Richie springs back and dumps his body right next to a grumbling Eddie who dodges his taller and broader form in the nick of time. Richie truly woke up one day and decided to grow two inches, all arms, and legs, brutal stretch marks littered all over his body.

Eddie could only dream of achieving the same; he hadn’t grown a mere centimeter in the past two years. Unnecessarily so, Eddie is rarely bothered by his height because Richie is gigantic and well—perhaps in moments before sleep, before he succumbs to exhaustion, Eddie allows himself to daydream about the perfect places he could slot against Richie. How easily Richie could kiss his forehead and sling an arm around his shoulders. How easily Richie carries him on his back, weak as sandpaper but strong enough for Eddie who’s pocket-sized—in Richie’s words. How large Richie’s shirts are on Eddie—a situation he’s experienced frequently due to sleepovers. And maybe he pretends to not notice he’s accidentally gone back home in his clothes. Maybe then, in the security of his bedroom, he can lift Richie’s shirt to his nose.

And scream into a pillow for an hour.

And maybe...he secretly enjoys the fact that Richie is tall enough to reach places Eddie can’t. How easily he helps him out, such as plucking a book from the top shelf in the library. How simple it is for Richie to do so without prompting—as if he is inherently in tune with Eddie’s fast-tracking thoughts—the only one able to catch up. And sometimes it’s Eddie attempting to do so, to run as fast as he can and...attach himself to him. But he allows himself this. Allows himself to dream of their hugs, cheek pressed to his chest, as Richie’s head fits gently on Eddie’s head. Warm and pleasant, and hot hands rooting him to the Earth—to the present—except still be able to send his mind into a hazy stance.

Richie doesn’t only take his breath away. He supplies him with air, lungs stretching painfully, and then steals all of it in an endless loop. Turning and turning in circles. Maybe this is the reason they’re stuck in a cat and mouse chase. And maybe Richie’s Jerry now. Maybe Eddie’s Tom because he has to be brave and chase what he wants.

“Hey, Rich.” The soft and low lull has allowed Eddie to grasp a gentler gaze in return, a quiet thrum of sincerity from the pair. Of affection he rarely shows.

He hands Richie the rest of the skittles in the packet, car humming underneath them, just a bit rough to cause their bodies to shake. Eddie finds their faces a couple of centimeters closer than before—close enough for him to see a reflection of himself in Richie’s cartoonish glasses, scared but adventurous and real.

It’s stupid. Leftover skittles—and yet Richie reacts as if he’s gifted him a chunk of the moon, throat locked and jaw muscle flexing. A tentative smile juts up, canine teeth bare and eyes shifting as if Richie’s shy all of a sudden—or overwhelmed. He accepts it without a word because there is no need and Eddie thinks it’s worth it even as his stomach swoops downwards, heartbeat about to slam out of his chest.

It’s worth all the fear of rejection he balls up and kicks to the curb with all his might.

_Fuck_ fear.

***

“‘Alright ramblers, let’s get ramblin’!’” With a finger twirl in the air, Richie slams the front door behind them, the once quiet house, chaotic in under seconds as the Losers invade every nook and cranny, truly making themselves at home.

Sometimes Eddie imagines them to be bacteria, infecting whatever they touch, leaving their aura behind for Maggie and Went to smile about later. They have an affinity for a full house—for the chaos and evidence of life and insisted multiple times that they swing by without hesitance. It’s become a tradition to gather at their household where Maggie delightfully bakes cookies for them, gossiping as if they were just as much her friend as they were Richie’s.

“‘Are you gonna bark all day little doggie,’” Wentworth reveals himself, strolling in from the hallway in his pantsuit and work clothes, an indication he must’ve gotten home not long ago. “‘Or are you gonna bite?’”

He mimes the whole effect with finger guns, sending the Losers into a fit of laughter, which ultimately resolves Went to break character. A light, crinkled smile akin to Richie’s sports his expression and it’s incredibly jarring for Eddie on some occasions.

“I suppose that makes him Nice Guy Eddie, huh?” Maggie says as she too joins the group, warmly welcoming Eddie with a shoulder rub he instantly melts into, flustering. Sometimes he falls back into ingrained habits such as straightening out his posture and tucking in his shirt to appear presentable around adults.

“Madre gets off a good one!” Richie chuckles, woeful as he drums a fist to his chest, “I’ve always dreamed of being Eddie’s dad.”

A sound of disgust, “Why do you have to make everything so weird!” With a huff, Eddie shoves his heavy weight off.

“I believe it may have been my fault this time.” Maggie sheepishly defends her son who’s got an arm propped up for a high-five. She leaves him hanging—of course.

“How was school?—Oh, how was the initiation?” She asks as they travel towards the common meet-up area: the kitchen, “Sorry about the mess.”

Cartons and cardboard boxes cover all pathways in a maze-like structure. Most of their decorative items and hangings are cleared from their walls, causing the room to feel strikingly empty and bare. Eddie’s heart twinges and he can tell by the dip in the atmosphere that he isn’t the only one somber. He and the rest had all been happily living in denial, putting off the looming ache their future holds and how they’ll have to adapt to change. Eddie is stubborn and finds it difficult to accept the fact that he’ll not have the chance to gather them all in a room together for quite some time. Six months maximum and that’s if they’re lucky. If they’ll get tickets, if their schedules align, if their parents agree, if he can finally stand up for himself.

Will they remain friends? Will they find better people? Will Richie? Will Richie one day realize he can be happier with someone who isn’t as intense as Eddie? Will he still want to speak to him if the situation spirals out of control based on Eddie’s confession?

What if it’s useless in the end? If Eddie’s left in the dust, having waited too long only to find that Richie’s packed his bags and moved on. What if it changes everything and Eddie ruins their friend group? Take sides—as if they’ve gotten divorced—

“Eds?” The concern he initially expected from Maggie comes from Richie instead, owlish and biting his lip. “Want some water?”

His throat clogs like a drainpipe, vision blurry around the edges but Richie is sharp and clear as day. Eddie’s staring but he can’t seem to move his head or eyes away.

Croaky and high-pitched, he replies, “Mh-hm.”

Now, Richie’s an affectionate person who dawdles over anyone near him whether it be a stranger or not. There had been a time between the ages of twelve and fifteen when he’d be careful. Eddie used to do a mental count of how many touches he’d receive. A hug, or an arm brush, or an annoying headlock. Those were included. In recent years, however, Richie’s returned to his previous self, no longer a shadow of someone he used to be. His daily quota involves at least enough touches for Eddie to lose count by the end of the day. It’s as if he’s making up for the years lost, always pressed up alongside Eddie, thighs brushing, shoulder-to-shoulder, cheek pinches, and sometimes it’s small and unintentional yet charges him with electricity. Those ones are his favorite.

It jerks him to life.

And Richie’s able to do so once again by trailing an intentional palm from Eddie’s left shoulder, a slow path to the right, grazing down towards his bicep and stopping. Eddie suppresses the urge to shudder.

“Hey, what’s this I hear about a party tonight?” Went’s tone is deceptively relaxed as he flips through unopened letters on the kitchen counter.

Meanwhile, Eddie’s mind briefly springs back to how he’d left his bottle in Mike’s truck just as Richie arrives to hand him a full glass of sloshing water. “Thanks.” He mumbles and Richie shoves his hands inside his pockets, leaning on the counter with a barely-there nod.

“I heard about it too...” Maggie folds her arms, “Sounds like a grand affair.”

“Oh, it must be. I suppose we’re all going out with a bang.” Beverly supplies, to which, Richie helpfully adds the sound effect of an explosion.

“Cookies, anyone?” Maggie places a bunch in an open plate they, as one unit, magnetically fling to.

“Yes, please!” Mike says in between a frenzy of swatting hands just as Stan skillfully grabs one with the fewest chocolate chips.

“You’re the best.” He says, and his compliment prompts a smile as she reaches up to let her fingers curl in Stan’s hair.

“Of course, sweetie,” Maggie replies, demeanor flipping like a switch, “So do we need to set any rules? Boundaries?” Her authoritative tone isn’t enough to truly strike nervousness as Maggie and Went—as well as Bev’s aunt—were far more understanding than they needed them to be.

They were spoiled, Eddie would say, by their easy-going nature towards the behavior of worrisome late nights and brash hang-ups in the form of bruised knees and broken noses. Both had been entirely Richie’s fault and can be blamed on his challenging smirk for the two of them dangerously raise the stakes higher in a never-ending cycle of desperation for attention and thrill.

Fighting an evil space clown, it seems, hadn’t satisfied their craving for near-death experiences. Pining for adventure, pining for Richie; Eddie can’t spot the difference when he’s standing in front of him, at the edge of a precipice.

“Mother!” As if he’s reverted back to his tantrum-throwing days, Richie deflates, a low whine he extends, head tilted towards the ceiling in hopes of godly help.

Now, Maggie’s fairly calm unless provoked, naturally accepting the harshest jokes or nicknames in stride. This is not, however, the case for that particular term Richie has used and specifically worsened by the tone of it because Eddie has on multiple situations such as this, observed her nose scrunch up, mouth cringing at the application of it. And Richie is well aware of her dislike. He also has a death wish.

She thumbs the frame of her glasses—an ego-bruising accessory she only possessed after months of complicated arguments between her and Went, to which Went ultimately went behind her back to buy for her. The last straw may have been the time when Maggie had mistakenly added sugar in the place of salt in her infamous vegetable lasagna or the time she drove them all the way to Bangor after missing a turn and reading the signs wrong.

Maggie presses a tense weight to her tone, “Richard Wentwor—”

Richie’s cheeks dot with color, tip of his ears pink and adorable as if he’s incapable of believing she’d go this far, “Mom!”

A delicate hand roughened by age and duress lands on her waist, “Oh, did you not like me calling you _Richard_ , Richard?”

Bill smothers a smirk with failed discretion while Mike and Beverly twist their heads away, cookie shoved in their mouths as Ben and Stan are unsurprisingly stoic in a polite manner, and Eddie? He doesn’t mask his glee the least bit and finds himself on the receiving end of a trademark wink from Went.

“Come on,” Maggie insists, foot down, “Repeat after me: beer bad.” Richie groans and it doesn’t deter her the slightest, “ _Beer_ _bad_.” She repeats over the inhumane noises her eighteen-year-old son creates.

He rubs his face as if he’s beating dough at a bakery, pressed fingers to his eyes underneath his glasses. Richie’s nose has gotten pink, eyes a tad red and watery. Clearly, he is no match to Maggie’s foreseeable wrath and stubborn trait for he prolongs a sigh.

Depressed, he mumbles, “Beer bad.”

“Once more with feeling.”

“Beer bad.” Although there is a bit of an edge to it, Maggie seems satisfied.

“Good boy.” And before Richie could dodge, she cups his cheeks and briefly squeezes them with a loving smile.

“I’m not a dog.” He mutters to no avail.

“I beg to differ,” Eddie smirks, and Richie sticks his tongue out, looking much like the animal he’s being compared to. He seems to come to that realization himself for he predictably slumps after a beat, a bit slow on the up-take.

“The same goes for you guys,” Maggie points at the Losers who all promptly erase all expressions of mirth to convey they’ll be taking her words seriously. “ _I do not_ want to have to be called up in the middle of the night, asked to rush to the emergency room—God forbid. Do you hear me?”

They simultaneously bob their heads and Maggie doesn’t budge for a second more until she’s sure it’s sunk in. “What time should I be expecting you home so I don’t worry myself sick?”

She clears away the plate of cookies before Went could snatch another, smacking the back of his hand lightly. The utter look of betrayal on his face is comedy gold.

Richie searches their faces for an answer but none seem to have it. He winds up his shoulders, “Last year I heard they boogied until six in the morning.”

Eddie mouths _boogied?_ to himself, flabbergasted and hopeless. _Boogied._

“Then you’ll be home by six, correct?” Went asks in a very _do or die_ way.

“Sure.”

“ _Richie_.”

“Come on, man! Have a little ol’ faith in me!”

Went raises an eyebrow, “Fine.” But he isn’t ready to let go just yet for he points at him, a picture of a typical scolding father, “But like your mother said. No beer or drugs. I mean it. They rot your teeth.” He waves his hand in the air with a sour face.

“My teeth are shiny clean last time I checked, see?” He even goes as far as to bare them but rather than appear compromising, he seems desperate instead.

“Yes, yes, my skills are impeccable.” He dismisses, “And don’t think for a second I don’t realize you trying to play nice. We were your age once too, you know.”

“Exactly! My point!” The crazy glint in his eye further pulls together his unhinged aura.

Maggie and Went share a look, telepathically engaging in a conversation the children are unable to decipher. She scratches the side of her nose, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she thinks of the right words. Behind her expression is the truth, plain as a flashing neon sign. Eddie recognizes fear in a blink of an eye—the leftover anxiety is a scar from 1989. Maggie couldn’t possibly imagine the horror the Losers had been through nor imagine they’d fought a dangerous entity as old as time. Yet her trauma lies just the same as it does on their palms, cut deep, and unforgettable.

“Just...” She starts gently in a way that reminds Eddie of Mike, advancing on sheep at the crack of dawn after a sleepless but eventful night at a traditional Losers sleepover. “Be careful. Please?” 

“Cross my heart.” He mimes an ‘x’ to his chest but she shakes her head, holding out her pinky.

Richie smiles crookedly, twisting his own pinky around hers. He aims to disguise the effect of her concern except Eddie’s become an expert at deducting Richie’s genuine moods, layered under countless masks—like the ones they store in the props department at school for theater purposes.

“I promise, Mags. I’ve got a lot to live for—Eddie’s mom for one. Can’t go out without a bang, you know what I mean?—”

The bubble pops.

“Richie, no,” Maggie repeats for what seems like the billionth time in her life, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Eddie emphasizes every syllable, “See if I talk to you the rest of the night. Test me, bitch. Test. Me.”

All he gets in response is cackles with tears streaking down his face. Richie gets like this—free and unable to control his laughter. Eddie wonders how he could survive in a career of comedy if he falls into a giggling spell at the lamest jokes. Still, Richie’s beautiful when he’s in a fit, laughing for a good amount of time and clutching his stitched stomach.

There’s a truth that lies in there.

He blinks out of his hallmark movie-esque thoughts just in time for Richie’s breathless coded words of “look”, “small” and “Chihuahua”, idly the only ones he can riddle out to construct the assumed sentence. If Eddie received an arcade token for every jab about his height and or anger issues, he’d be a millionaire and have Richie be his servant. Maybe that’ll teach him not to provoke the tiger in the den.

But it’s the small smile wiggling on Maggie’s expression—exasperation and love despite her annoyance—which allows Eddie’s own grin to form, stomach no longer churning. Maggie and Went were the eyes of the hurricane, amidst chaos—not necessarily chaos created by the Losers—but chaos overall. It had been Went who taught him how to shave at the age of fifteen, after the humiliating idea of realizing even Beverly had tiny hair above her lips.

Eddie had been behind all his life, running to catch up starting from the day he entered grade one. Sonia kept him back a year following the death of his father, explaining why Eddie was the eldest among his classmates—nineteen. This, however, doesn’t create any grievance on his part because he couldn’t blame Sonia for starting the chain events that would shift his entire world and how he views it—no matter how ironic it was.

Ideally, it’s foolish and naive to still harbor the thoughts his seven-year-old self would think about regarding Frank and faithfully believing he was still looking out for Eddie even in the afterlife. But is it really much of a stretch considering Pennywise and the matter of how little they understood the secrets of the universe?

Deep inside, Eddie aches the loss of his father not for the obvious reasons, but for how differently he’d turn out to be—how different Sonia would be. Alternatively, he wouldn’t have become friends with Bill, wouldn’t have met Stan and Richie, and Beverly, and Ben and Mike—but Richie. He couldn’t imagine a world without him, and what about Pennywise? Eddie wouldn’t have been roped up without Bill’s persistence. Sure he’d be sane but is Eddie deranged in thinking he’d rather choose every outcome where he has his Losers by his side?

He internally gathers a verdict as he peruses a glance towards Beverly and how she randomly winks at Eddie in moments, as if she’s constantly trying to include him. And how she wipes the crumbs off Ben’s mouth, and how Ben writes letters to all the Losers on Valentine’s day every year. He thinks about Mike naming his sheep after the Losers, and how he’s always on the losing side, loyal as ever. He thinks of Bill, his oldest friend, the person Eddie perceives as a dumbass but a dumbass he adores to death, his feelings stretching into familial ties—Bill who taught him how to build a strong personality and to never give up no matter what. He thinks of Stan and his old soul—the one person in their group who probably felt emotions deeper and inherently than anyone Eddie has had the pleasure of knowing. And he thinks of Richie.

Only Richie. How he allows Eddie to win an arcade game every once in a while, and how he’s always the first person to wish him happy birthday every year, throwing rocks at his window at midnight and holding up a stupid poster that reads “Happy Birthday Eddie Spaghetti” in glitter like he’s recreating the boombox scene from _Say_ _Anything_. And how he pushes Eddie off the cliff at the Quarry, because sometimes Eddie needs that extra nudge just to dip his toes and let go so that he can live for once in his life.

He swallows a lump, breath coming short. Eddie may be fucked, and be a recovering asthmatic hypochondriac but at the end of day, surrounded with people who encourage him to be who he really is, he’d take this road, and this journey a thousand times over. No questions asked.

Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to re-live that moment when pure bravery washed over him in the sewers—when he’d yelled _I’m going to fucking kill you_ , every letter bouncing with kinetic energy. He’d been powerful. And as Eddie thinks, the memory of a scared Pennywise slithering into the dark vivid at the forefront of his brain, he thinks he wouldn’t mind it at all.

***

“Eds?” Like a crow poking it’s beak into Eddie’s flesh, Richie digs his pointer finger to his waist in incessance. “Eds, baby?” Poke, poke. “Eddieeee!” He flails around, mimicking an Air Dancer in attempts of catching Eddie’s gaze or even the barest display of a smile to show Richie’s wearing him down.

Much to Richie’s dismay, he is not wearing him down, and Eddie has successfully given him the silent treatment for around an hour, causing Richie to pout all evening and float around his radius even at this party.

Eddie’s sticky in areas of his armpits, the dip in his spine, his nape, and his inner thighs where the whole effect of summer shows. It spikes his irritation further because his skin crawls—the sweat combined with a certain someone constantly bothering him. Except Eddie isn’t truly angry. Anymore. But Richie’s looking at him. He likes that quite a lot.

“Gin and Juice” by Snoop Dog blasts from all corners, louder by the crowd singing along, dancing with beer cups in their hands. Greta and Darla are piss-drunk at this point and Eddie’s experiencing second-hand embarrassment from the way they’re in their underwear, tripping over fallen tree bark every two seconds and laughing like hyenas. Beverly rolls her eyes whenever they pass by, expression hardened with grit. They had a habit of maximizing their bullying when shit-faced, hence why Beverly stood like a guard dog.

They’d only arrived half an hour ago, the party already in full swing even at eight PM—earlier than Eddie had presumed it to start since these functions usually did so earliest at nine. Bev must be onto something though. The seniors this year really were planning to go out with a bang, and surprisingly enough, Eddie had been asked to take pictures with classmates he’d never spoken with before in his life. Sentimentality is an infectious disease he supposes, and it’s spread amongst them here and now, casting away negativity. There hasn’t even been one fight—but the night is still young.

The Losers have since divided and grouped off leaving Stan alone with Richie and Eddie, who was in no mood for third-wheeling it seems and simply lied down in Mike’s cargo bed, one knee bent, hands clasped low on his midsection and sporting dark black sunglasses he’d borrowed from Eddie.

Eddie wishes to steal some of Stan’s zen state of mind—Stan who is complete with a walkman, most likely listening to _Enigma_ because his obsession ranks the same as it does with Mike’s obsession with Celine Dion. Stan had bought the latest Enigma album the previous year, which was as rebellious as it was not considering the fact that he did so without his parent’s approval. Specifically his father’s.

Richie and Eddie were seated at the edge of the cargo bed, legs dangling. Richie’s swinging them in lethargic fashion, impatient as he ducks his head to meet Eddie’s eyes. The action is adorable enough that his cheek twitches and Richie pinpoints the flicker—bullseye. He reaches up to Eddie’s cheeks and uses his pointer finger and thumb to form a smile.

“Stop it,” Eddie mutters, karate chop formation. Richie doesn’t listen and continues molding Eddie’s face. “ _Richie—stop_.” But they both know he’d have kicked his ass if Eddie truly did want him to stop treating his face like it was play dough.

His fingers smell like skittles, a tad oily and Eddie’s definitely going to find pimples all over his skin tomorrow.

“Come on,” His heart thunders at once when Richie tangles his long fingers into Eddie’s shorter curls. Nails scrape. “Don’t be raw spaghetti.”

Eddie pauses to frown, fire lit up again, “Dude, what does that even mean?”

“You know...” Richie’s beam scrambles his brain, “like how spaghetti gets loose and free when it’s cooked? Not stuck up?”

A frown deepens, defenses building, and Eddie’s ready to retort except Richie’s one step ahead. He has a way of surprising him.

“Hey.” He’s cautious and curled as if wanting to seem as small as Eddie, to create an equal ground. “I don’t mean it like that. You’re a firecracker.” He says in a very matter of fact tone, tilted grin borderline of a smirk.

_Richie’s your best friend. He’s a dumbshit that has the emotional range of a spud but he loves you. Relax._

“A firecracker?” Eddie barters, and it’s enough for Richie who matches his energy in less than a millisecond.

He nudges Eddie’s shoulder with his own, head trained down at his big hands, nails bitten. Maggie and Eddie tried to discourage this behavior but it’s been a habit of his since he were nine-years-old. It’s what began his addiction to painting his nails but now it’s turned into a fashion statement instead of treatment to stop him from biting them. Eddie thins his lips and licks them, bearing down the pleased grin that battles against his face.

“Yeah.” He replies as if that one word explains his entire thought process. Perhaps it did. A goofy sort of embellish glazes across his expression, heart-eyes magnified behind heavy-duty frames. “Do you think there’ll be fireworks tonight?”

More than Eddie, it’s Richie who’s caught off guard by the change of topic. “Don’t know...” Eddie leaves the words to linger. “Do you want there to be?”

Richie inhales sharply, jaw parted with unsaid words he fears to say out loud. He looks afraid and caught off guard which is bizarre considering he’d changed the topic.

He twists around to Stan then—an escape—and his next victim, “Hey Staniel! Mister James Dean wannabe!” He calls out.

Stan doesn’t respond at first, a disgruntled noise thick from his throat until he lifts his sunglasses in mid-air and plucks one earbud out, the epitome of deadly calm.

“Now, why do I get the sense that you’re my plotting my death over there?” Richie asks rhetorically, finger to his chin with a choppy cowboy accent.

Stan’s nose flares, “Because I am.”

“Damn.” He breathes out, “Listening to _Enigma_ makes you so emo.”

“Rich,” Eddie cuts off, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m bored!” He explains dramatically, “You’re not entertaining me—” And then, because he’s got the same attention span as Eddie, he spurs on to say, “I’m going to get us some beer.” Richie jumps down to the muddy ground before he could even hear Eddie’s complaint and disagreement. 

Lingering a piercing look at his retreating back, Eddie sighs.

“Go after him,” Stan mumbles in his reverted state, sunglasses on, earbuds in and relaxed.

“What?”

A throe of yells echo in the night—probably from cheering on some poor guy drinking from a keg. Stan repeats that same irritated sound and sits up, pushing his sunglasses to settle at the top of his head.

“Come with me.” Eddie asks instead.

“This isn’t my fight, it’s yours.”

“Just fucking come look for him with me.”

Stan’s going to strangle him with the cords of his walkman.

With slow precision, he wraps the cord around the frame of the walkman and unzips his bag to store it inside. The lurching in his stomach dies down.

“The things I do for you.” He threatens under his breath but it makes Eddie smile.

“You’re the b—”

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand.

Eddie nods and they proceed on their search for a good five minutes with no satisfactory outcome. His heart beats at the muscle of his throat, hands tightened as fists by his sides. But he recognizes the all encompassing and amicable smell of tangerine close by, which creates a blanket of comfort around him.

Beverly giggles, throwing an arm around his neck, “Eddie! Stan!” She loops another around Stan who smiles softly at her enthusiasm. “Finally joining in to have some fun? Wait, where’s Richie?”

His absence strikes the air with concern. “He went to get beer but now we can’t find him.”

“We haven’t seen him either,” Beverly replies, turning to Mike, Bill, and Ben who shrug as well. The twist in his stomach gears up again.

“Maybe he got lost. You know Trashmouth.” Bill offers.

“I don’t think that’s helping, ba—.” Mike shifts into a pause, but recovers quickly as Bill flushes, turning his eyes to the ground, “...Bill...”

Before anyone could unpack that, Ben says, “Let’s keep searching. He couldn’t have gone far and he knows these woods pretty well.”

“Yeah...nothing to worry about.” She doesn’t sound confident but he appreciates her intent.

“Yo!” A voice that couldn’t be anyone else other than Richie’s nearly gives the Losers a scare. They whip their heads around to his casual self, strolling in.

He appears shifty, as if his mind was miles away, pumping with over-stimulation. With a scuff to the ground from his toe, he blearily blinks at the expectant group.

“That’s it? _Yo?_ ” His anger seeps in waves, crashing outwards without his self-control reigning it in. “Where the fuck have you been, Trashmouth?” 

Richie’s seemingly nonchalant demeanor cracks, and he winds up tighter than a knot, “Mouth?” His voice cracks, higher than Eddie’s heard him do so in his Minnie Mouse impression.

Eddie frowns, inspecting his scrunched form, a trace of anxiety lingering, “Did someone say shit to you?” Richie’s eyes snap to meet his, “Richie. What did they fucking say to you?”

“N-nothing!” A smile breaks on his face, “Relax, my dude. It’s all chill.” And yet, the jittery shake in his tone tells otherwise.

Mike takes one step ahead and it has Eddie find his equally toned down cautiousness expressed in the way his jaw muscle flexes.

“Look what I scored,” Richie ignores the heavy onset of vulnerability to beam and the action is almost able to soothe his nerves. Almost. Richie holds a joint in between his fingers, “Ta-da!”

“Holy shit.” Beverly whispers. Entranced, they crowd towards him like fly to candy, the previous mood erased. Eddie too is curious, anger muted. For now.

“How?” Bill asks, tracing a finger to the roll, fascinated.

The show-off that is Richie, purses his lips and shrugs, “Slater’s a homie.”

“He’s a fucking stoner is what he is.” Eddie deadpans flatly. Richie flaps his hand in dismissal.

“Tomayto-tomahto—The point is, you want a little taste of adventure or not?”

And that. 

Fucking _fuck_.

Five minutes later they’re all in a circle on the ground, laid down, heads pressed together as they stare at the billions of stars in the sky. A firefly horizontally buzzes across his vision.

Eddie swears, “I don’t think it’s working.” He confesses to the serene air circling around them.

A beat of silence.

“Yeah, no.” Mike agrees.

“It’s shit weed.” Beverly chimes in.

“Barely felt it,” Bill adds.

“Sorry, Rich,” Ben criticizes in his own way.

“Great!” Richie throws his hands in the air, and swivels his head to the left, “Stan, any input in trashing my existence and dumb-assery?”

“No.”

A choked sound of affection, “Goddammit. _This_ is why you’re my best friend.”

Stan makes a disagreeable noise and corrects him, “I have nothing to say because unlike the rest, I didn’t have any expectations in the first place.”

“ _Ouch_.”

Mike snorts and it builds into deep laughter, infectious since Bill and Ben rumble along with mirth. Although a smile plays on his mouth, Eddie smacks the back of his hand on Richie’s chest.

“And fuck you!—”

Richie yelps, “ _Me_? What the fuck did I do?!”

“I thought I was your best friend.” He argues, amping the dramatics in order to draw attention away from the fact that the declaration did stab his heart. Just a tiny bit.

Stan bursts into laughter, curling to the side, “Of course.”

“Aww!! Eddie Spaghetti is jealous of Stan the Man!” The annoying fucker coos, grabbing at his arms and ultimately scoring a jackpot by tickling his stomach.

“F-fuck you!” He wrestles the surprisingly strong weight of Richie’s tenacious fingers, giggling.

“Could you two please flirt somewhere else?” Mike teases lightly.

Eddie and Richie freeze, expressions caught in embarrassment. Richie flings his hands back to himself, both their chests heaving up. Everything burns and Eddie’s limbs jitter—like it does when he drinks coffee on an empty stomach or drinks coffee in general with a milder bodily reaction.

“Placebo.” Ben fills the awkward silence that falls thickly in suffocation. 

Shit. _Shit_.

“Gazebo.” Richie corrects, “Ha!” His ginormous mouth opens along with a bark of laughter because he’s the worst person alive.

Eddie hits him.

“ _Ow!_ Would you _please_ stop using me like I’m your personal punching bag?”

“Only if you stop being a jackass!”

“Anyway,” Ben cuts in to steer the conversation back to its rightful place, “Placebo weed.”

“You’ve been played, man.” Bill throws loose grass in the air, and they watch it fall, just as enticed as if it were snow in winter.

“You know what’s crazy?” Mike starts in that particular tone saved for his educational and or conversational topics about controversies and the like.

“How boring this party actually is?” Beverly supplies shifting back to mirror his grin.

“Bev gets off a good one!” Her and Richie high-five with an audible echoing smack. 

Eddie can hear Mike’s smile, “That too. But George Washington—it’s crazy to think he grew fields of Hemp.”

“Seriously?” Eddie rolls on his front and this prompts the rest to follow, shifting to sit criss-cross.

“For industrial purposes. You didn’t know that?”

There’s never any judgment in Mike’s questions about knowledge; always generosity and willingness to explain. Ben shares this quality, and this makes the two of them excellent tutors whereas Stan can never dumb it down for Eddie while Beverly, like Richie, loses interest quickly. This means they never get anything done, considering Eddie’s own inability to focus on one thing at a time. The three of them blast music instead and jump on the beds, recreating music videos until Maggie or Went barge in to scold them but later grab their camcorder in order to videotape their shenanigans.

“That’s what they don’t teach you in history, man.” Scoffs Richie.

“Hear, hear.” Beverly hums in the background.

“Right, and think about the money. Have you ever looked at a dollar bill closely? Green. There’s some spooky shit going on with all that.” Mike tends to turn excitable in such debates, explaining why his words are rushed and half-making sense.

Eddie loves his eccentricity. He craves it and makes him think that maybe this is why he loves his friends. Them and their weird habits, mirrored in different ways, allowing acceptance they can’t find from people outside their circle.

“George W-Washington was into Aliens.” It’s Bill who provides this detail, “This w-whole country was founded on their obsession with the extraterrestrial and s-supernatural. There was a cult, you know—and George Washington was the f-founder.”

Eddie waits for anyone of them to interfere—they don’t—but Stan’s locked gaze in his direction proves he had an ally. It’s all he needs.

“ _Now that’s just bullshit_.”

“Dude!” Bill says, “I r-read about it! Mike showed me.” It’s clear the two of them are a team for Mike nods.

“I don’t know if it’s factual.” He points out sheepishly.

Richie snaps his fingers, metaphorical lightbulb floating above, “ _X-Files!_ ”

Eddie’s _ugh_ is overthrown from the excited agreement coming from their group. He shares a look with the one person who would be as unimpressed as him. There’s a faint smirk on Stan’s mouth as he tears away from Eddie’s floundered stare.

“See?” Smugly, Bill boasts, “Obsession.”

To which, Eddie retorts with a simple middle finger.

“Shit.” Ben staggers to his feet, and checks his watch with the aid of moonlight. “We should go up to the moon tower now if we want the best spot to watch the lunar eclipse.”

Their smiles drop.

“Oh, hell. I almost f-forgot.” Grunts Bill, who lifts off the grass.

They swipe grass stains and dirt off their bums. Beverly stretches, straightening the frizziness in her strands as a result of the humid atmosphere. She’s grown it longer the past year, having the length reach her shoulders—but never, ever, let it grow past that benchmark. He finds the two extra bobby pins he keeps, and hands it to her.

“You’re a life-saver—the absolute best.” Beverly exhales in a dreamy lilt as she pops one between her teeth to loosen it, and then slides back the irritating strands that fly in front of her face.

His heart—the sound of pride so strong he has to swallow down a lump. Eddie likes to help, he wants to be useful and prove his love in his own meaningful way because for someone who rants for hours—like Richie—he’s useless when it comes to words that truly have a purpose.

When she’s got the bobby pins in, she cups his cheek and grazes the flesh as a _thank you_. A mother’s caress. 

Perhaps they’re touchy-feely, hands locked and arms swung around their bodies like they’re a puzzle piece to the bigger picture—they don’t make sense if they’re apart. But, Eddie thinks he may never find people like the Losers. People he’d feel comfortable touching, and be intimate with emotionally and physically.

It slows them down whenever they’re pressed together, moving as a group carefully as to not trip over limbs but Eddie couldn’t care. So they walk together towards the moon tower, built close-by on a land rumored to have been reserved for a sustainability plant. They’d only completed the tower until the construction manager died of mysterious circumstances, project terminated and discarded. It had been the quickest dismissal if he’s ever witnessed one. Typical.

At least they had kept the structure. The Losers came across it one day and their curious nature drove them to instantly explore the steel frames, eager to get their hands on.

“Remember when we were freshmen and those seniors used to scare us by saying someone accidentally fell off?” Richie asks, not reading the room at all.

Eddie’s palms sweat.

“Uh-huh....Wonderful time to bring that up.” Mike replies from under Stan.

“Good thing we’ve come up here thousands of times, right?” Richie smirks, levitating up to the top where he’s safe on leveled ground.

Ben’s already reached with Beverly, staring up at the sky, shoulders molded together. He takes Richie’s hand when he offers it, trying to distract his brain from risky thoughts that will do him no good out here.

_You’re safe. Like Richie said. You’ve done this thousand of times. It’s sturdy. You won’t fall and paint the steel with your blood like seniors used to say you would._

In aims of distraction, he casts his eyes to the town itself, caught in awe every time as if it’s the first time he’s experiencing it. He’d been fifteen then, already seen horrors the town is masked from.

Eddie used to think how a town like Derry, mesmerizing at night, could feel repressed, dull and evil during the day. How could such beauty disguise evil lurking beneath the chips of paint and flickering streetlights? It makes him rage for he felt the unfair weight of pressure adults living in Derry were blind to. Eddie had come up here alone once and screamed his throat raw. He couldn’t speak for a week.

“Yowza!” Richie swings from a steel pole, landing with a loud clamber that shakes the netted metal floor under their feet.

“Can you not? I’d like to live past eighteen, please.” Beverly tsks, not unkindly. She props her face up to the yellowish moon, the rest, too, similarly doing so around the circumference.

“It’s starting!” Ben whispers. It’s not a secret nor will his voice influence anything but his excitement is endearing.

Eddie smiles, finding serenity as they _ooh_ and _aah_ at the fiery moon, cascaded with textures and colors he’d never seen before even though there had been a couple of other lunar eclipses in the past. The party seems miles away up here, the beat of the music heard but lyrics muffled. It feels as if they’re the only people who exist. A cooler breeze passes, and Eddie sighs, closing his eyes to allow his senses to buzz, to sense the flutter of fabric and hair stand up in attention. Eddie shivers, adrenaline pumping furiously and he grips the handlebar tighter, leaning further at the edge, unafraid. He thinks he sees Richie chuckle softly and turn his eyes away from Eddie but he can’t quite focus on that at the moment.

Mike and Bill appear awfully cozy in their own personal bubble a few steps away from the group, whispering lightly. Perhaps they had beat Richie and Eddie. Perhaps Eddie had missed the signs, too caught up in his own affairs to notice their love blossom from hesitance to reassurance.

“I think it’s part of the every-other-decade theory,” Beverly says randomly, deep in thought. “The seventies were meh, the eighties were radical. The nineties? Well...it’s self-explanatory.” A beat as she reconsiders, “Plus, nothing ever good happens in this piece of shit town.”

“Hmm.” Stan agrees along with the rest, rolling his lower lip inside his mouth, thoughtful.

It’s Richie who beats him to the punch. He’s seated on the metal floor, legs hanging from the edge, and arms dangling on the middle frame like he’s being hung on a guillotine.

His words are sharp, “I disagree.” There is nothing Richie attempts to hide. It’s plain Richie, emotions bare. “I’ve had the best years of my life with you guys. That’s something good, isn’t it?”

“Rich.” Eddie says, at a loss of words.

“I mean,” He continues with passionate fervor, “Fucking look at this town, man! Look at the world. All everyone cares about is getting high or drunk—even I thought I’d be a lot cooler if I did, you know? I feel like I have to pretend with everyone. I feel like I’m going to have to pretend in college when you guys aren’t there. Because I don’t have to be someone I’m not around you all. I mean! None of you even beep-beep me anymore. Who the fuck is going put up with my bullshit like you guys do? Huh?”

His words break at the end, strained with a heavy emotion that pricks intensely behind Eddie’s eyes.

Stan, gentle and calm, says, “We’re going to miss you too, Trashmouth.” Richie sniffles, a choked laugh escaping his mouth. Stan’s face clouds with hesitance, “I know how you’re feeling...” He stares at the moon as if it’s difficult to face anyone else, “I think that’s why I’ve been distancing myself recently. Preparing myself to figure out how to not depend on you all...To prepare for the detachment and loss I’ll feel.”

Richie grabs his hand, and squeezes it, eyes watery to match Stan’s own teary gaze.

Ben clears his throat, “Yeah. Sometimes I feel as if I need you all more than you need me.”

“No.” Beverly’s harsh in the way she says it, quick to fight. “Don’t say that. _We love you_.”

Ben nods as if he’s humoring her and Beverly’s emotions bottle up in the tiniest exhale once she pulls him to her side, wrapping him up in her arms.

“Fuck.” She swears and quickly wipes under her eyes, “I’m never going to find boys—no.” Her lips wobble, “ _Men_. Men like you. So loving and brave, and kind. No one will ever see past the fact that I’m a woman. And you guys accepted me for who I am. You make me feel like I’m one of you.”

Ben’s cheeks stain with tears but he makes no move to dry them away, instead, opting to tenderly dry Beverly’s. “You _are_ one of us. Because you’ve accepted us the same way we accepted you. Just look at where we are now. No one else is going to be as excited to see a lunar eclipse I waited months to see like you guys will.”

“Jesus, you’re such a nerd.” And it would’ve been funny if it weren’t for Richie’s swollen eyes and pink nose.

“Richie, you’re a nerd,” Eddie tells him.

Bill hums, a wet chuckle, head hooked downwards, “It’s like what Ben said. Nothing beats f-fighting evil s-space clowns.” They burst into unexpected laughter, mood lighter. It propels him to elaborate, “Seriously! Who the fuck is going to match my insane t-tempo and be w-willing to do that?” He asks, “No one.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever leave this town,” Mike reveals, not sadly or with any regret, but with candor and as if he’s come to terms with his fate. “I’ll be the lighthouse keeper, I guess.” He shrugs, going for a pathetic chuckle that doesn’t ease them the least bit.

“We won’t forget you, Mikey.” Eddie insists, thinking that if he wills it strongly enough, it’ll come to pass.

“I really do love you guys.” Mike’s fingers interlock with Bill’s. “This town felt a lot less lonely once I started hanging out with you all, but I suppose there’s an unbreakable bond that attaches only from fighting an alien together.” He adds lightly, cheshire-like expression directed towards a pink-faced Bill.

“Eds?” Richie pokes his knee, “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

The ever-growing painful blob inside the vicinity of his throat doubles. He shifts into a position in which he’s bent his legs to his body, head tucked to his knees, arms looped and locking his legs in place.

“Because...” Rapidly, he furiously blinks tears away, “every one of you has already said what I’m feeling...and I feel like if I start talking—I’ll—I don’t know—fucking explode or some shit. Like I’ll just start talking forever—or I’ll start crying and never stop.” And Richie is so fucking soft, un-judging and perfect, staring back at him. His eyes burn. “Fuck.” He takes a deep breath and hides his face in his knees. “I’m not going to make friends. And college is going to suck. It’s going to be lonely—but I don’t care because what’s the point if it’s not one of you?” 

Tentative at first, Richie brushes his shoulder, slowly gripping it. He opens his mouth, but closes it again, releasing him with a slip of his hand. Eddie grabs it, not wanting to miss this chance. They’re grubby, chipped blue nail-polish, dirt under the bed of his nails, perspiration located between his fingers and his scar throbbing in time with Eddie’s.

“Richie, you know I...” His bowels gear up in response to his razor-fast heart beat, pulsating in a frenzy in every vein his body stores. Richie holds his breath. “I’m going to miss you the most.”

“Me?” An unbelieving sort of laugh hacks, chest pumping fast.

Eddie nods, smiling at the corner just as Stan gets up, silently communicating to the rest. Richie’s frown deepens, cluelessly watching the others climb back down the ladder, Bill leaving with two encouraging thumbs up, and Beverly kissing his hairline. Passing courage.

They’re still holding hands. This time he doesn’t allow Richie to let go.

“I think I’m missing the punchline somewhere.” He says nervously to Eddie’s rather intense stare.

“You are.” He whispers in light, aiming to settle his screaming nerves.

“Oh.”

“But it’s not your fault. For having the lowest self-esteem anyone could ask for combined with the fact that despite being the Einstein of our grade, you’re the biggest dumbass I know.”

“Cool.” Richie chuckles lamely, “Einstein.”

“It’s the hair too, I think.”

“Gah!”

Eddie rolls his eyes, “Are you seriously doing one-word answers right now?”

His thumb swipes on the skin between Eddie’s thumb and pointer finger. Eddie has small hands, small feet, small forehead, small shoulders—small everything compared to Richie. But he never feels _small_ next to him. Richie inflates his ego—builds him up only to shatter him into a hundred sharp glass shards, each harboring all of his emotions.

Eddie’s voice is small, though, carrying a load he needs to release as he gulps down saliva, “Remember when I ran to your house in the middle of the night that one time?”

“I—" Richie has this habit of biting the inside of his cheek—perhaps acquired from Maggie—but he shrugs as an afterthought and says, “Hmm! Let’s see, Eds! Let me flip through—I don’t know—the billions of other times that’s happened!”

Eddie flicks him on his forehead with his other hand, “Don’t be a bitch.” He chastises.

“Says the king bitch.” Richie retorts, easy smile but frantic energy crashing out.

He can pick and choose his battles, instead, resolving to lick his lips before he trains a glance towards the heavens, “That time was different from the rest.”

“Yeah?” Richie’s audible gulp makes Eddie want to hold him or do something to level the tremor in his tone.

“You told me you were in love with me.”

A breathless whine. The sound is strikingly similar to when Eddie had broken his arm when Richie took one look at him and his face crumbled for a split second.

Eddie can feel Richie’s pulse quicken, uneven breathing patterns. A parted mouth, “I thought you were—"

“Asleep?” Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him, smirking not unkindly, “I know.”

Richie appears faint, and the air stills with delicate tension. “Shit. I think I’m going to puke.”

He immediately perks up, concerned as soon as Richie dry heaves, “Richie, relax! It’s okay. Hey, look at me, it’s okay.”

He shakes his head, thrashing in Eddie’s hold “It’s not! I never should’ve said it.”

Eddie clamps down the urge to sigh or scream—or both. “Why not?”

“Because!” His voice is loud enough for Eddie to spring back. “It was supposed to help me get over you!”

His gut drops and splatters, painting his insides.

Eddie stitches his eyebrows together, fury igniting from a match only Richie could strike. This green, ugly monster—this Hulk wishes to unleash and Eddie, for once, has to stop.

“Well, I don’t want you to get over me.” Eddie’s breathing hard, he notices tell-tale signs of increased blood pressure and palpitations. He repeats it once more, unsure this time, “What if I don’t want you to get over me?”

Their eyes lock. Richie isn’t breathing at all.

“Why would y—” He cuts off the question, words dying on his tongue once Eddie moves closer for their knees to touch. “Um.”

His glasses are crooked, a hairline fracture on one side from all the times he’s carelessly handled them. But his eyes are bright, shining from the moon—because it has to be for that reason.

“Richie—you fucking—” His brain is vibrating on a higher frequency he can’t catch up to, “—God, you fucking doodle our names together every day in History.”

“Holy fuck—” Richie breaks and laughs hysterically, completely red from his head to his neck. “I can’t believe this is happening right now.”

“And you carved our names on the kissing bridge—”

“You saw that?!”

Eddie nods.

“Dude.” Eddie thinks he very much sounds like Slater right now, high and out of body.

“Still with me?” He asks.

Richie scoffs mildly, “Just fucking snipe me, Eds.”

“Good. You’re with me.” Eddie affirms.

“If you’re...” He twiddles with the zipper of his jacket and then Richie clears his throat, going for nonchalant. “If you’re done humiliating me—”

“I’m not humiliating you.”

“Mmm, I don’t know. I’m feeling not so cool right now.”

“Okay,” Eddie says and feels the echo of Richie’s _Welcome to the Losers Club, asshole!_ bounce like a ping-pong ball inside his head. Richie had been a fucking rockstar then. He’s cool. He’s always been cool.

“So...” Eddie starts, metal cold under them, but he’s warm and gooey like lava cake on the inside, “if I say I’m in love with you too, would that put us on equal ground?”

It happens in slow motion. Richie’s breath hitches, all systems shutting down right before Eddie’s own eyes. Of all the reactions Eddie had been hoping or expecting to receive, fear was not one of them.

Eddie blurts, “I carved that crooked ‘R’ on the bridge, it’s close t—”

“I know where it is.” His breath whooshes out. And this is how Eddie knows it’s been finally registered.

Those glassy eyes only further prove it. But of course. Richie and Stan. The first ones to burst into tears the minute their emotions get the best of them. Like the time the two of them had gone on a family trip to New York, where they explored the city for an entire week—free and gotten back to Derry sullen. New York hadn’t been much but it was the slice of life and excitement they missed, of which couldn’t be found in Derry. Or New Year’s Eve. The Losers could always count on Richie and Stan to make long sappy speeches that sound more like epic poems about their reflection of the past year. Or when Stan had found a den of baby ducks near the Clubhouse, all young and motherless until the Losers had stepped in to adopt them. But it was Stan and Richie who were most dedicated to feeding them and nurturing their every need. Caring for those ducklings had been their entire world for a week until the ducks went missing, having since recovered, found a new location to move on to.

“Can you please—” If Eddie touches him, he’d think Richie would crumble, “please say that again so that I know I’m not dreaming.” Every tiny muscle in Richie’s body is wound like a tightrope.

He’s begging as usual. How he begs for Eddie’s opinion, how he begs for Eddie to join him when he wants to watch that new movie, or replay a song, or how he begs to be Eddie’s partner in school projects even though the two of them wind up arguing about the topic of their next research paper for days until a truce is commenced and they have to spend the night before the deadline typing it out to perfection.

The point is. Richie chooses him. So, if repeating it again and again will make a difference, who is Eddie to deny?

He’s careful when he reaches forward to dust off a stray eyelash on Richie’s cheek. Eddie remembers when the Losers were younger, delightfully making a wish before they blew the lash away. Richie would always wish to escape this town—to be famous and loved. But Eddie thinks he has a clear idea of what he’d wish for now at this very moment.

“Prom this year.” He blurts, “I threw a tantrum only because you wanted me to go and because I would’ve driven myself insane wondering who you’d be dancing with if I wasn’t there.” Eddie might throw up but he’s a motor road and the key has been unlocked, “That time you fell sick in February. Everyone else came over to distract you except me because I took a bus ride to Portland after I found out this shop was selling the new _X-Men_ trading cards and I had to buy them as soon as possible.”

“You gave them to me for my birthday...” Richie gasps and whips up his head, “Is that why Sonia?—"

“She was furious.” House arrest for three days.

“Eddie, baby.” A broken, disbelieving coo. “You went on a two-hour bus ride to Portland on a whim. A fucking bus with strangers. A bus, Eddie!”

“I know. I was there.”

Richie’s throat clicks, arm swinging up, “I distinctly remember in the third grade when you swore off them and threatened to chop my body in half if I ever made you step inside a death-trap, leper and Pennywise induced fever dream of a vehicle!”

“Uh, no.” Eddie says, “I think I used those specific words after that summer but let’s not get into the logistics of it.”

Eddie blinks.

Richie blinks back.

“You’re—!” He appears as if close to blowing a gasket, fingers digging at his eye sockets in frustration towards Eddie’s collected demeanor. “Jesus Christ. Eddie. You know you’re my fucking everything, right? Do you know that? I wake up and the first thought of my day is: I wonder if Eddie is awake. I wonder if he had nightmares. What is he thinking? What will he say about my shirt today? What will he do when he sees me? Will I be able to make him smile—because I think I’d fucking die if I couldn’t. You’re my fucking hero.”

“Richie...” Gaze unwavering and more intense than he’s ever seen in the past, Eddie shakes.

“Harvey tried to kiss me—when I disappeared.” He reveals, caution not unnoticed by Eddie whose eyebrows automatically dip down at the mere mention of his name, mouth curled. “That’s what I was doing—and I thought, god, for a split second that maybe it would be nice to stop thinking about you for once. To enjoy whatever he could offer me. But then he started leaning in and everything felt wrong because it wasn’t you!”

Oh. _Oh_.

Richie’s trembling hands run messily through his hair, action captured by Eddie’s heartstring because it’s all so stupid—Richie’s stupid, and Eddie is dumber for finding the simplest behavior endearing as hell.

“I love you.”

And Richie can do nothing but stare, “Yeah?” his pupils widen, cheeks stretching slowly in the softest gesture, like a baby opening his eyes for the very first time.

Eddie nods, throat locking as he swallows, “Yeah.”

The shirt Richie’s wearing is one Eddie has worn before in the past due to forced circumstances involving the existence of Richie Tozier’s frame, when one day, sitting on the stool of the Tozier kitchen island, Eddie was struck by how much taller and wider Richie had gotten in under a month. The result of this delayed realization is squeezing a juice box too tight.

He’d forgotten, almost, how ratty the fabric had been, reminded all at once as soon as Richie’s swooped him into a hug. Not having calculated his own weight, Richie crashes on top of Eddie, causing the two of them to collapse in a heap, bars shaking with a loud clang. He doesn’t wait for the air to return to his lungs, or wait for Richie to move away in fear of crushing Eddie. He chuckles breathlessly instead, followed by a pinprick of heat surging behind his eyes as he stretches his fingers under Richie’s jacket to feel the texture of his fuzzy shirt, bunching the fabric as strongly as Richie clutches the back of his head.

“I hate you so much.” Richie wheezes like he’s choking on a lengthy puff of a cigarette—like when he’d gone through his “phase”, quitting smoking as quickly as he had started because he’d begrudgingly noticed how bad he was at it. “Fuck you!” Richie pushes upwards, palm on the side of Eddie’s head, “You’ve known for months and decide today of all days is a good time to drop this on me?” He angrily swipes the tears collecting under his eyes.

Eddie averts his eyes, regret blooming, “I know...I waited too long. I didn’t mean to but I got stuck inside my head...and well, I don’t know, Rich. I almost wasn’t able to do so even now. I had this entire plan to tell you before the day ended—it’s past midnight—and it’s so—I hate that I’m so—” His hand gestures are complete nonsense, swiping the space between them.

“Obsessed?” He supplies with a disgusting sniff, sound encapsulating Eddie’s insides and ultimately maximizing his urge to cry because Richie has the ability to turn him into an emotional mess apparently.

“Yes. That.”

“I’m proud of you for telling me. Even though it was a shit move to wait this long.”

“Really?” And screw him if he sounds as vulnerable as he feels.

“Really, really—Pinky promise!” Richie wiggles his pinky and Eddie bursts into unexpected laughter at the sight. A voice like honey, Richie melts above him, desire so readily apparent behind his gaze, “I love your laugh.” A blush instantly blooms upon dictating those words.

Eddie feels warm inside and out, and when Richie grunts as he sits up, he pulls him along like he never wants to let go. Eddie can see spots of color on his skin, scattered above his nose and nowhere else.

“Wow.” Richie goes cross-eyed. “We’re super close. Might give a guy some ideas.”

“Mhm.” A hum as he situates both hands on Richie’s cheeks. The hitch of his breath sporadically creates a hop in Eddie’s pulse. A painful skip like throwing stones in a lake and watching them jump on the water from the correct flick of his wrist. Bill had taught him.

“Kiss me.” Richie puffs and Eddie can taste him already, tongue tingling. He doesn’t smell like anything but Richie—this faint manly aroma that has Eddie inhale him in deeply, just to have a part of him stored inside.

He should fight or whip back with a retort but Eddie wants them to kiss and he knows banter will get them nowhere if he decides to participate.

So he slots his mouth along Richie’s, testing the waters, the two of them frozen like they’re pausing to truly savor this life-shattering moment. They’re not breathing. And blood thumps heavily past his ears in a rush so loud he can’t hear the music at all. It’s not as if it’s good because this is Eddie’s first kiss—and he’s sure it is Richie’s as well—but he doesn’t mind that it sort of feels as if he’s kissing a fish or a brick wall, or the fact that they need vaseline for their dry lips pronto—or that they have no clue where to put their hands. Because they’re new at this and they have the chance to adjust. 

They have time.

“Richie.” He breathes in against his mouth, noses nuzzling together, “I need you to kiss me back.”

Richie blinks blearily, a cloud shadowing his face, “Hmm?”

“Kiss me back, moron.”

“I—“ Richie’s face clears, mouth thinning in a line before he nods, “Okay, okay.”

“And you know you can hold me, right?” A bit of humor travels through his tone, causing Richie to sheepishly pout.

“Right.” He replies lamely as if he needed the validation because he thinks he’s not out of the woods yet. “Of course.” Except his lips resume its quiver and there are fresh tears sparkling.

“Should we continue?”

_Wait for it._

It comes out as a warped breath and a hidden confession of love: “Yes. Please.”

And there it is.

Eddie smiles. This time they fit perfectly, lips crushing in sheer force, teeth aching painfully against the seam of his mouth. But then Richie cups his face back in gentle, experimental strokes and tilts his head in the perfect angle. And fuck—it deters all of their nerves in a split second, tugging a sound mixed between a sigh and a whimper from Richie’s bruised mouth. Giddiness incomparable, Eddie flattens forward, fingers skimming behind to feel every bump of his vertebrae as Richie abruptly sucks in a sharp breath, pulling off.

“Was that too much?” Eddie asks, concern gnawing at his ducked head, reaching to push stray curls behind his ear.

“Just a bit overwhelmed.” He mumbles and drops his head into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder. Richie emits a dreamy sigh, arms curling around Eddie’s midsection like a sloth hanging from a branch.

There’s so much of Richie—covering Eddie even as he curls up on his chest—and it’s Eddie’s turn to overflow from affection, rendered speechless except wishing to do so much more. Always more.

Eddie brushes a hand to Richie’s nape and tangles his fingers. It’s as if he’s pushed a button for Richie nuzzles deeper.

“I’ve just come to realize that you’re going to be insatiable, aren’t you?” His voice is muffled into Eddie’s shirt.

“Me? Insatiable? Never.” Eddie presses a feather-light kiss to the soft skin where his jaw and his neck meet.

“Yup. Insatiable. Gah!” Richie swoops away, blowing out a breath in unison of hiding his burning face in his hands.

“Richie, are you blushing?” An uncontrollable smirk tugs at the corner.

He groans, “Shut up! I’m mad at you! We could’ve been doing that this entire time and now you’re torturing me!”

Eddie laughs, prying at Richie’s fingers, “I thought we were past that.” But Richie is relentless, and his hands block his entire face. “And...we still have a month together, don’t we?”

Richie stops squirming, parting a finger to the side to reveal one eye. He lowers his hands to his lap, a layer of defense bordered on his expression, “Eds, what’s going to happen to us? After, I mean?”

Eddie’s heart sings with hurt and hope—vaguely making out the powerful lyrics boosted by Celine Dion’s vocals playing on the speakers:

_We’re heading for something_

_Somewhere I’ve never been_

He lays his forehead on Richie’s, sure of his reply before he’s said them out loud.

“Whatever we want to happen.”

Richie pads a thumb to his knee, circling ever so slowly, and Eddie has to wonder if he’s aiming to draw some sort of emotion out of him. An answer.

“You’re going to be in New York.”

_Sometimes I am frightened_

_But I’m ready to learn_

“You’re in California...” Eddie bites his lip.

“What if it doesn’t work out? What if we can’t make it?”

_Of the power of love_

Eddie exhales a breathy laugh and grabs his hands because he can. And kisses him because he can—and tells him he loves him because he can.

“But what if it does?”

Richie blinks to fight off tears, surging to kiss him—to chase him, the faint stubble above his mouth scratching at Eddie’s raw lips. He parts with an inhale, then kisses him again. And again. “I love you. I love you—" He laughs with wet puffs, “I can’t believe you’re crying.”

“You cried first!” He shoves at his shoulder when Richie laughs, ears tinging. “And you need to fucking shave, asshole.” Eddie swabs a thumb to his minuscule hair.

“Fuck no! You know how long it took for me to grow these bad boys?” It’s second nature for Richie to rest a hand on Eddie’s hand which has taken residence to freely explore the annoyingly attractive mustache he’s growing.

“Eugh.” Eddie rolls his eyes, flutters in his stomach upon the small kiss Richie mouths to his palm. “We should probably get back to the others, huh?”

Richie raises an eyebrow, “Do we have to?” He asks as if he’s not going to go along with whatever Eddie decides in the end.

Hilarious.

“What about Sonia?”

“What about her?” His reply is quicker than he had planned it to be. Dammit.

“Real cool, Casanova.”

This time, he swerves in time and misses Eddie’s swat.

“It’s handled.” His bite would probably be effective if he applied any sincere heat but Eddie is liable, skin cut open, and vulnerable.

“Eddie. Baby. You do realize that sounds like you’re about to have her assassinated, right?”

Eddie tries not to get distracted from the way Richie’s fingers brush at his shoulder, at his neck, at a specific pulse point that bursts from proximity.

“She’s going to be out until eleven AM at the least.”

Bewildered, Richie frowns, “Sleeping pills?”

A feeble nod, “Nightmares.”

Sonia had not, even after nearly two decades, healed from the trauma her husband had left behind in wake of his death she solely blamed herself for.

Richie doesn’t prod any further, having experienced how exactly he could handle a situation such as this. “That means you’re staying over?” Hope shines near the end like they’re passing through a tunnel, “For a bit?”

It’s a dry snort but a snort nonetheless—a bit exasperated, a lot fond. “Will that be weird?”

“Mags and Went are cool.”

“No, I know—I mean...you think we should tell them?”

A sly knowing smile, “I have a feeling they’ve been waiting as long as the rest have.”

Eddie traces a finger to outline the scar on Richie’s palm, the same exact one to his own, mirrored perfectly as if the two could connect and join if they place them side by side.

“You’re right. We have been terribly obvious.”

Richie makes a denying noise, “Well—never mind—“ His curls bounce from the velocity of his head shake, “You could’ve clearly asked me out and I wouldn’t have realized the implication of it.”

Eddie drags his nose to Richie’s cheek, peppering a few kisses to his molten skin with a laugh, “Yeah—your forehead might be the size of a watermelon but your brain is pea-sized.”

“May I just remind you, good sir, of my valedictorian medal?—Jesus, Eddie!” He puckers his mouth, rubbing his thigh where Eddie pinched him. “You’re so jealous of my smarts—”

“Shut up—” He smacks a palm to his grinning mouth, “You know I hate British Guy!”

“British accents are sexy. There was a poll, you know...” Of course he’s still able to speak.

“Fine, then I’m part of the thirty percent minority—”

“Ten percent, actually.”

“Ten percent minority. Your voice is fine as it is.”

A choked scoff, “‘Fine’, he says. Just ‘fine’.” Richie woes to the tinged moon, reaching out at the sky, distressed, “Be still my heart.”

Eddie prolongs a sigh as he gets up, “Yeah. I’m already regretting this.”

“You chose this!” He quips, easing into a standing position.

“Yeah. Like I choose to eat cheddar cheese for a snack every day despite knowing it makes me gassy.”

But Eddie’s words seem to widen his smile, especially so when he slides a hand to Richie’s back, keeping him close. He bears a slight vibrating sound Eddie can feel under his touch, crossing through his body and mouth swift in dabbing a wet peck above Eddie’s eyebrow.

“That’s the little rebel I know and love.”

Richie couldn’t possibly sound more fond and Eddie wants to scream again—into the abyss of the heated night where fireflies zip by like shooting stars.

Eddie does not, however, scream until his throat hurts. He settles to cling to Richie’s form, hands locked around his broad waist. He thinks of squishing him. Or being squished by him.

Eddie blinks, breath stuttering. Those, certainly, were not healthy thoughts. In fact, the entire idea of Richie is unhealthy in every way, and sometimes Eddie ponders upon the reason behind his obsession with him. He sometimes wonders if perhaps he’s simply attracted to Richie because he’s the living embodiment of someone his mother despises and warns against. But it is this detail exactly that boosts Eddie’s compelling urges to fix Richie by not fixing anything about him at all. Because he will never be able to go through with it, except the idea of doing so...it turns his brain to mush.

It’s similar to the neurotic habit of cleaning Richie’s glasses or wiping dust or ketchup off his chin and knees for he seems to wind up in a messy situation multiple times on a normal day. And—Eddie wants to take care of him. Truly wants it and he could easily possess this wish if he just reaches out to clutch it.

Their fingers are slotted, arms swinging in between as they stumble back to the party in hopes of regrouping with their friends. Richie chuckles ever so often under his breath, and nothing is particularly funny but Eddie joins in each time. So they don’t pay attention to the way their classmates blearily narrow their eyes to the areas their skin touches, nor delve into the fear of displaying open affection in a town as dangerous as the one they live in.

They simply exist.

And when they spot the Losers lounging inside Mike’s truck chatting up a storm that’s silenced from their quiet arrival, they know no words need to be exchanged. Gentle smiles are enough.

“S-so...” Bill taps his nails one by one on the surface of his car, “Karaoke diner anyone?”

“Fuck, yeah! I’m starving!” Richie groans.

“You’re always starving.” Beverly scrambles up his already messy hair, and like a dog, he shakes his head, leaving his glasses askew.

And somehow, it realigns their entire world.

Stan pointedly serves him a smug look, closing the folds of his sunglasses and then handing them to Eddie. It’s an _I_ _told you so_ if Eddie’s ever seen one but he lets it be, surrendering first for Stan to glower in his glory.

He deserves it. Eddie’s feeling extra generous and that only occurs every once in a blue moon—or in this case, red moon. Might as well.

Eddie zips his fanny pack with a firm nod, “I’m in.”

_With you all?_ Always.

***

Because Derry is Derry and the thought of opening a karaoke diner couldn’t have crossed the mind of any dull, dim-witted businessman—they set off to Bangor, a particular sort of weight lifting off their shoulders the second they see the rusty _Leaving Derry!_ sign blur past them.

Forty-five minutes later they’re bursting in through the entrance of the diner, bell jingling sharply to alarm the half-asleep employees whose cheeks slip off their palms in attempts of proving that they weren’t just drooling all over their arms.

“SEÑOR WOODERSON!”

Eddie’s nose scrunches up from Richie’s yell, all too loud in this average-sized space, built for echoes when empty. But Eddie supposes it wouldn’t be Richie if he did have an indoor voice in the first place.

Wooderson smacks a palm on the counter, wrinkles increasing in folds on his forehead, “Hail Mary! If it isn’t Richie Tozier, my favorite customer. Does your mother know you’re here?” He leans forward, one eyebrow hunched, hand on his hip.

“Actually, no one knows where we are,” Beverly proves she’s no help, saying it in passing so that she can make a beeline towards the machine, “First!” She announces.

“Dammit.” Richie mutters as Bill groans out a ‘fuck!’

Wooderson scrubs his face, utterly exhausted, “You children will be the death of me if not the death of Maggie and Went.”

Richie cheers, “You know it!”

“The usual then?” Wooderson dismisses as Richie sputters a laugh—answer enough, “Got it,” He waves over to Natasha, his youngest daughter. “Take care of them, will you? I’ve got to make a quick call.” With a pointed look in Richie’s direction, he steps outback.

“She’ll be asleep!” He helplessly informs although it’s useless as he’s already gone. Wooderson is the fill-in grandfather Richie never had—a man who had worked at and for this diner his whole life.

In means to help out his father, Went took on a job here in his senior year of high school where Maggie used to stroll in for a cup of coffee each day, unamused in Went’s attempts to woo her with comedic one-liners penned on her receipts. Wooderson had watched it all—the awkward interactions resulted from Maggie’s rejections to Went eventually wiggling through her defensive walls, to their first kiss as a couple and their first kiss as bride and groom. He’d been there for every milestone related to the Tozier family. Hence his concern.

“So...” Richie, the world’s biggest dipshit, sleazily slides an elbow on the counter.

Natasha, cold as ever and used to his behavior, snaps, “It's fucking two in the morning, Richard. You decide if you want me to spit in your food or not.”

Eddie makes a pained sound.

“Ah,” Richie nods, “You know I love the Natasha special—"

“Fucking hell—" Eddie grabs his arm with a shake of his head to Natasha, who clicks the cashier button with a hint of a smirk.

“Make sure to make it all juicy and fat!—" He yells as she flips him the bird, but prepares their food nonetheless.

“God, I can’t take you anywhere!” Eddie tugs him into their usual booth, pushing him onto the seat situated across the table so that they’re on opposite sides.

Richie makes no move, smiling with gentle curves and dimples as Eddie stares at him, face in his hands, “Stop staring at me!” He demands, arms in short of reaching Richie.

He presses in forward, chest aligned on the edge of the table, and shoulders jutting when he palms his chin, awestruck and real. Eddie notes the trace of his love in his bright eyes, white teeth shining under CRI 80 lights. Just the two of them in solitude, the voices of their friends near the karaoke machine, arguing about the song choice. A distant ache in his limbs matches the weariness behind his eyes he’d previously ignored. It has now all piled up at the front, inertia at halt—as if now that he’s told Richie he loves him, he can finally relax. And by relax, he means to feel the month's worth of distraught overthinking take its toll.

Eddie can not for the life of him ever de-clench.

Except, in a momentary pause, something clicks inside his chest—something like an organ fitting right back in its original place—like the perfect keynote in a song. And the emotion emits in a labored breath—a dark and heavy cloud moments away from pouring down rain.

Ben exclaims in the background but they both pay no mind to it as if the sound is from a TV they could lower the volume to. Above, electricity thrums from LED lights. Outside, a car whooshes past, and inside, Wooderson’s muted chuckle and voice carries all the way to where they’re sitting, Natasha flicking a switch to turn on the cold drinks dispenser.

He’s not one to feel peace. Eddie’s mind is constantly turned on even while he sleeps—explaining his vivid and strange dreams that could easily be the plot of a David Lynch feature film—but he and Richie make it a mission to create noise and would rather talk bullshit than keep silent for even two seconds.

They’re not saying a word now though.

Eddie shifts in his seat and moves closer, arms resting on the table. Delighted—but why exactly?—Richie seems to liquefy further in response to this minute detail, not budging for a second.

“How are you?”

Richie blinks and his cheek twitches before rightfully slimming his lips, “Ah. We’ve swapped spit and we’re doing _that_ now, are we?”

“Doing what?” Eddie props an elbow to rest his fist on his cheek. There are absolutely no stains on the table. Would you look at that?

Richie scratches the polished wood finishing, tilt to his head, “Small talk.”

“I can’t ask how you are?” He asks in bafflement.

“You’ve never asked me before...?”

Eddie tenses, “Bullshit, I must have.”

“Mmm, no,” Richie chuckles, “You have never asked me how I’m feeling, Eddie. I’m sure.”

And that. That’s fucking awful. Coming from Richie who asks how Eddie is feeling every single day before they go to class, shouldering past bodies in the hallway.

“Don’t do that. Don’t ask me about boring shit because we’re not boring people.” Tone hard and harsh: the only method of getting a message through to Eddie. He shrugs all the way up to his ears, “You know how I am—I’m beyond ecstatic.”

Eddie nods.

“Just talk shit, yeah? I love shit.”

Eddie expects the smile forming before he’s even begun to process his words. “You’re bullshit.” He retorts, “So I suppose I love shit too.”

Richie makes a choked out sound, completely in awe, “I need that fucking tattooed on my ass—“

Eddie rolls his eyes—and it hurts because he’s exhausted.

“—so that every time I take a shit, I remember: Eddie loves my bullshit. He loves me and my shit.”

Eddie pinches his eyes, laughing under his breath, hysterical and a bit high from giddiness. Perhaps smoking that blunt had a delayed effect and it’s all catching up to him now in this deliciously aromatic diner, the smell of fried chicken and boiled potatoes, of sizzling cheese and hot sauce—

Okay. So maybe Eddie _was_ hungry.

He opens up his mouth to speak but Bill pops up out of nowhere, absently scratching the small portion of his wrist where muscle tends to knot due to excessive writing and drawing.

Bill’s frowning as he slides into the booth beside Eddie, “Why are w-we talking about shit?”

Richie straightens up.

Eddie holds up a finger, “Don’t encourage him.”

“Hey, you were laughing for a solid five minutes, jerk!” But he turns to Bill then, “So. Came here to lick your wounds?”

“Ah, fuck you!”

Riche cackles, boasting loudly and wiping fake stray tears, “Beverly is the light of my life.”

“Love you too, babe!” She calls from the other side of the diner, winking. Pressing the tip of her fingers to her lips, she blows them a kiss Richie pretends to catch.

“I don’t k-know how she has blackmail material over me. I r-really don’t!” Bill whines, pouting with his already quite pouty lips, slumping in his seat.

“She’s just observant,” Eddie says.

“Eh.” Bill grunts pettily, “At least they’ve chosen a s-song now. You know how Ben and Bev get.” They nod in a shared look, “No duo until they’ve got the p-perfect song.”

“I’m all good as long as it’s not _New Kids on the Block_.” Richie shrugs off-handedly, until a moment of clarity flashes across his expression.

His knee stops bouncing.

“Holy fu—" Richie falls over the table, grabbing each of Eddie’s shoulders. He stumbles as Richie drops his gaze down to his mouth.

Frazzled, his question dies at his throat, grim from Richie’s pause. “Rich?” Eddie slowly pushes his glasses up the slope of his nose, having dropped from his rapid movement.

“Sing with me.” His hands graze up to cup Eddie’s cheeks. He’s breathless with wonder, peering up at his eager expression. “I’ve always wanted you to sing with me.”

“That’s...” The question of _haven’t I already?_ dies on his mouth.

His attention flickers to Beverly screaming with laughter, cheering with fisted hands in the air once she’s got the selected song playing, Ben littering her cheek with a couple of thousand kisses. _"_ I Swear” by All-4-One filters through in lyrical beats, familiar and sentimental all at once, Eddie’s chest bursts. He vaguely registers Wooderson praising their choice as Stan hooks a microphone in his hand, stating he will turn this duo into a trio because it is his favorite song at the moment—which is a whole other story—and one Eddie can not for the life of him worry about since Stan truly is an enigma and half the time, he’s left to wonder what he’s thinking of in his wise-beyond-years brain.

And perhaps it’s everything all at once—Mike insisting he should sing along as well, glowing skin when he pounces on to the stage and how Stan throws a loose arm around his neck, unguarded laugh at the root. Free.

Eddie draws back to give his undivided attention to Richie, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Teeth sucking on his lower lip, feeble.

“Yeah, Rich. I’ll sing with you.”

This time, Richie does kiss him with the force of a raging storm at sea, crashing face-first in exhilaration. And by the time Eddie’s brain gears into motion, chasing him back, he’s realized Richie’s sprang up and already rushing over to the machine.

Eddie’s gobsmacked. Delirious. Flushed. Pounding heart beating erratically enough to briefly panic about falling into cardiac arrest.

Or falling in love all over again.

“Shit.”

Bill snorts, “I’d say.” He quips, face turned towards him in an unbidden and mischievous smirk that promised to prod.

“I’m not going to gush and gossip over Richie with you, Bill.” He struggles to huff, embarrassed. “This isn’t a sleepover.”

With a neutral shrug, he points out, “But you do w-want to t-talk about him.”

Eddie tilts his head down to his wrist where the skin has become irritated, splotchy red, and angry. “Maybe. But I can’t say the same to you.” A small blush appears.

“N-now—“

“It’s whatever.” Eddie cuts him off. “You weren’t ready, I understand.” He gestures at his wrist, “Cream?”

“P-please.” Bill exhales in relief, “Bugs are nasty.”

Eddie grins, handing him over the cream he usually carries for such situations since they were quite common in the outdoors. “Like attracts like, huh?”

Bill laughs yet nudges him roughly, “Yeah but I still managed to make Mike my boyfriend and he’s _absolutely fly_ —"

“And what am I supposed to say to that? ‘You go, girl!’?”

Wooderson doubles up in laughter, close enough to hear the tail-end of their conversation as he sets down trays of food. The smell of french fries and shawarma alone fills his mouth with saliva in mere seconds within his presence.

“You’re the best, Wooderson!” Bill compliments, mouth already stuffed with french fries.

Eddie swears he’s as bad as Richie sometimes.

“No problem, kiddo. Let me know if you need anything else. You too, Eddie.” To which, he furiously nods.

It’s only until Eddie looks back to where the others are, wrapped on top of one another, swinging side by side as Richie fucking spins on top of a table when his eyes nearly bug out of his sockets. Richie rips out whistles, and Ben is in tears laughing as Beverly, Mike and Stan serenade the group.

Storming over to where he is, Eddie begs, "Richie! Get the fuck off that table—right now!”

He draws up a cheeky smile, bright as a light, “Eddie! It’s my boyfriend, Eddie!”

And that does not at all make his veins feel molten nor make his throat chalk up with emotion.

His over-excited nature naturally rubs off on Eddie despite his internal will not to let it so. Brain versus heart. A precarious battle. But there’s sweat clinging like shine on his forehead, smiling and smiling—always a fucking ray of sunshine, and openly displaying every single emotion of positive radiance Eddie wants to cup in his hands and hold dearly.

A tug on his hand—Richie—as he hops on down to the floor—much to Eddie’s relief—guiding him up on the stage.

“Move over Losers! I’ve got the perfect song!” He hip-checks Stan who flails his hands and hip-checks him back. The residue is Richie in shaky laughter.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Stan peers over his shoulder to see Mike chuckling and Eddie frowns, leaning to catch a glimpse before Richie covers it with his hand.

“Nuh-uh. Trust me.”

Eddie keeps silent. He loves how it’s not a question. It’s simply Richie and it’s an answer enough as it is. 

Slowly, he walks to the stand where a microphone is placed, posture a picture of a challenge and acceptance all at once, “Ready when you are.”

Richie beams, pushes a button, and scrambles over to his side to mumble, “I love you so much,” in his ears, so swiftly, Eddie barely has time to let the words sink in.

He’s tearing up, it seems. Eddie’s tearing up on a stage at three in the morning, soaring upon a celestial plane of existence. He takes the almost unnoticeable white knuckles of Richie’s hands, gripped around the microphone for what it is. Nervousness.

Stan and Mike clap Eddie’s back before clambering down, right on cue for the stream of music that immediately drapes him under a blanket of comfort from the very first keynote.

Eddie sucks in a breath, Richie’s eyes chaining him to the floor as he moves his mouth closer to the microphone. “ _There’s a calm surrender, to the rush of day. When the heat of a rolling wave can be turned away.”_

His voice is rough and raspy but not too bad—and not as if Eddie could possibly bring himself to care. Not now or ever because he is sure he’ll absolutely butcher “Can You Feel the Love Tonight”—butcher it to shreds—so much as so that he internally apologizes to Elton John on behalf of their group.

Bill is beside himself, laughing and cheering as if his life depended on it, Beverly and Mike snapping their fingers with ear-to-ear grins. Even Stan has to shake his head, amused with a small tilt at the corner of his mouth.

_The Lion King_. It had just come out in theaters all over the world earlier this month when the Losers paid tickets to see the first possible show they could scour to get their hands on. When they had all cried, holding hands and passing tissues during the first twenty minutes of the movie, in wonder and in awe of the animation.

That awe has not left.

“ _An enchanted moment, and it sees me through._ ” To offer some hilarity to his performance, Richie winks and points in his direction, wiggling him over with his pointer finger, “ _It’s enough for this restless warrior just to be with you._ ”

Eddie’s sweat-slick palms slip on the microphone but his voice is steady when he prowls to stand face-to-face with Richie, making sure to sing his heart out, “ _And can you feel the love tonight?_ ”

Anticipation—clear-cut—breaks once the Losers shout in excitement, and amidst the chaos, Mike yells out, “We do!”, causing a cacophony of laughter Natasha participates in, leaning on the counter with her arms crossed.

“Yes, we do, people. Yes, we do.” Richie announces to the crowd for the benefit of their doubt.

A smile on his mouth but shaking his head anyway, Eddie continues from where he’d broken off, “ _It is where we are. It’s enough for this wide-eyed wanderer that we’ve got this far._ ”

As if magnetically, Richie glances off to the side where Stan is. Eddie can read their visual exchange—a shared admiration for this rare version of him they’d not normally see without having created a fuss beforehand.

Richie’s taken his hand in his own, hair scruffy in an attractive mess, eyes hazy as he sings along with Eddie for the next part. Their voices sound good together—but Eddie thinks that’s only because he believes _they’re_ good together. They truly are.

Applauses wait for them when they’ve finished, and Eddie only really blushes when Wooderson praises his octave range—so he feels fucking good and loved. They all sing “What’s Up” by 4 Non Blondes next without an inkling of hesitation because Richie insists it’s _the_ number one karaoke song and they couldn’t leave without belting the lyrics out with greasy mouths and fingers. Together, they pile up in their booth, collapsing like dead weight, the roar of laughter, and limbs on top of limbs. Eddie’s mouth curls at the crook of Richie’s neck, leaving behind barely-there kisses.

When they’re about to head out, Wooderson seeing them off with an all too knowing expression, gaze lingering on places where Richie and Eddie are attached to the hip, Eddie waits for the ice to crack this dream-like haze they’ve been living in the last couple of hours.

He chuckles lightly.

“A lot of people in my time tried to restrict me.” Wooderson uncrosses his arms to scratch his jaw, “After I graduated, everyone used to tell me I’m a fool for having this dream. Said it wouldn’t take me anywhere, that I was wasting my time.” He waves his hand in the air—an edge to his rather mellow tone.

Beverly’s brows knit together, much like the others, something like sympathy matching their faces as they remember their own experiences they’ve faced.

“You’re off to university now...” Wooderson says heavily, rubbing Natasha’s back as she too would be going away soon, “And I just have to say this—the older you get the more rules they’re going to try to get you to follow.” No one has the mind to speak in fear of disrespectfully interrupting Wooderson’s vulnerability.

A finger comes up, pointing at the group, “You have to keep on living for you. No regrets. Just live.” It comes out as a hidden order—like they’re on a mission, Wooderson being their mentor, the Losers his apprentices, off to save the world from forces of evil and darkness.

But perhaps that is the mission. Life. To make your way into this world, and to live happily by loving people and receiving love in return.

“Keep on living.” Wooderson repeats, weary smile dangling. He appears softer and older than Eddie’s ever seen him before, overdue stress lines shadowing his once-alive skin.

“Keep on living.” Richie affirms with a tip of his chin, directing a look at Eddie, “I like that.”

They don’t say much the ride back to Derry. Streetlights flicker and the sun creeps up in the horizon, a bright glow just beyond the trees. Stan and Mike had passed out as soon as they got in the car, heads lying on top of another, Beverly and Ben next, Richie in line then Eddie. He’d jerked in and out of consciousness, unable to rest peacefully in a foreign spot with disturbance. But he massages a hand through Richie’s hair, smoothing out the tangles and seeing him shift closer and closer. Richie’s the only reason he’s allowed some sleep at all.

He yawns wide, rubbing crust out of his eyes when they’ve stopped at Richie’s house. Eddie shakes him awake, trailing a finger down his cheek as if to tickle him.

“Wha—.” He says with a full-body shudder, groggy as he sits up, “We’re here?”

They stumble out of the cargo bed after pressing light kisses to everyone’s foreheads, not willing to wake them up. Bill pounds their fists and Richie salutes him. And then he’s off, leaving a stray cloud of black fumes in his wake. Richie and Eddie, winded and looped around one another, watch them swerve around the block before sighing at the empty, lifeless street.

Richie carefully turns the key inside the lock, smothering another yawn, contagious from Eddie’s own as they quietly shut the door behind them with a soft click. Sunlight streams in through sheer curtains, basking the interior in summer glow.

He links their fingers. Richie grins.

The two of them find Maggie and Went on the couch, dead to the outside world, wearing their matching dinosaur robes. Went’s got his head tilted back, snoring up a storm while Maggie’s curled up on his chest, cheek squished.

They have to giggle lightly at the sight, careful not to wake them.

“Let’s go warm these up, yeah?” Eddie reminds, lifting the leftovers they brought for Maggie and Went.

Richie nods and seems to make his mind about something for he gathers a blanket draped on the couch and slowly tucks his parents in, Went releasing a rather loud snort which has the two of them scrunch up. The coast is clear, however, and Richie sighs in relief, Eddie exhaling a small puff of air indicating amusement.

Once they’ve put the food in the microwave to heat, machine whirring in the background, Richie flattens his palms on the island counter. Expectant.

“I love today.”

“Today just started.” He reminds, itchy to touch Richie or to just feel him close by.

“I love you.” He emphasizes near the end.

Without his permission, Eddie’s throat emits an emotionally choked sound. Two steps are all it takes. Richie and he gravitate like planets, ultimately wrapping each other up in an embrace. He’s on his tip-toes, Richie’s arms circling under Eddie’s armpits, scratching his nape. Eddie absently does the same, tracing imaginary patterns on his wider back, chin resting on the duvet of his chest, as Richie smiles down, broad and gentle—and sleepy.

“It was the best twenty-four hours of my life.” Eddie agrees.

“All because of me?”

“Hmm...” Eddie can’t help but smirk, “Maybe not all because of you but I would say—"

“Ninety-five percent?”

“No,” Eddie says, “Eighty.”

Richie breathes out a laugh, face dropping to kiss Eddie’s nose. “Liar.”

“Okay. Okay.” He stops, faux seriousness, “How does ninety-percent sound to you?”

“Even if I know you’re lying—" Richie narrows his eyes—yet it takes no true effect behind magnified frames. “Much better, Eddie, my love.” He smacks two kisses on Eddie’s cheek, “Much, much better.”

His cheeks ache. Eddie thinks about how easy it is for them to be...them. As if they’ve been dating their whole lives—and in a way, they must have. Without even knowing it, they’ve created vines of devotions that loop around one another from the time their blood had mixed. A promise which has now forever connected them.

It won’t be easy to be apart, living on different corners of the continent. Eddie hardly perceives he’ll survive just imagining the future and how lonely he’ll feel, but they’ll have to—and that just means they’ll have to make do too. To follow their own way—to live—to be wild like children, to never give up, to use the chances they’ve been given. To return to innocence. To make it count and make it worthwhile because sometimes the fight is all it takes.

And Eddie thinks that perhaps, this time, with feet arched up on the starting line, facing the unknown and braver than ever with Richie by his side—Eddie thinks he’s ready. The microwave beeps, noise replaced by whirring silence, and the thud of two synchronized throbbing heartbeats. 

_The beginning or the end?_ Eddie wonders briefly, the dulled sound of Maggie and Went stirring awake in the living room. Like an anchor, Richie holds on to him with applied desperation of anxiety and thrill. Yet it propels reassurance that Richie isn’t going anywhere. That they’re going to stay. That they’re going to fight.

And only then, as a wave of tranquility surges through him, Eddie realizes that perhaps he knew the answer all along.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, you're awesome because this was a lot wordier than I planned it to be...  
> Hope it was worth it since I know it's a lot different than what I usually write. I also imagined young Bill and PJ so that definitely helped tons because I personally don't want to imagine the kids at all.
> 
> You're not obliged to care at all but here's my [twitter](https://twitter.com/yippee_ki_ya) where I basically never shut up :)
> 
> Leave a comment if you'd like, I love talking to you all!!


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